


Where the Acorn Grows

by ThatOneChemistryNerd



Series: Hobbit prompt fics (A work in progress- more often than not at questionable times of night...day...whatever.) [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, BIlbo is hurt, I Ship It, I haven't decided yet, I will update!!, In more ways than one, It will happen!, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Most People Live Anyway, Not really though, Prompt Fic, The fandom had caught me-help, Thoirn is kinda an ass, Thranduil Not Being An Asshole, at least not as much as he could be, bard is a sweetheart, i think, i was bored, my tags need to stop posting before I finish them, truly-what happened here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:40:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 34,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9396038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOneChemistryNerd/pseuds/ThatOneChemistryNerd
Summary: Believing himself to still be banished after the Battle of the Five Armies, Bilbo does his best to help out in the aftermath despite having been injured himself in defense of Thorin at Ravenhill. While his guilt and loyalty leave him in a taxing game of hide and seek at the foot of Erebor, never going in but never leaving, he develops a relationship of mutual respect and almost friendship with the Dwarrowdam he assists in minding the children of Laketown and the few Dwarflings that accompanied her from the Blue Mountains, a relationship that leaves him with hope for something beyond death, but not the resources to achieve anything but.





	1. I'll figure out titles later

**Author's Note:**

> This is another one of my prompt fics, though this time not a one-shot, nor from the lists in my bio. I got it here: http://ladyredfeather.livejournal.com/751.html And I plan on doing quite a few of them and will put them in a series when I post the next one. Either way, enjoy my boredom induced ramblings that may or may not have been written at questionable times of night-- or day. Whatever.

Waking up was a slow process, one filled with that unnerving yet surprisingly comfortable sensation of floating that one can only get when in the hazy place between consciousness and sleep. The thing was, Bilbo was fairly certain he shouldn’t be waking up.

He wasn’t sure why he thought this, but it was the first thing he could focus on when the darkness he was surrounded by became slightly less dark, and the second thing was that he had absolutely no memory of falling asleep. He hazily became aware of his limbs, and then a weight against his back in the darkness. Eventually it occurred to him that the weight was the ground and that he was in fact laying on it. It was cold, and he then registered that the rest of him was cold as well. This prompted an unfortunate realization that _everything hurt_ and the ground at his back was the source of the icy prickles permeating his skin.

Bilbo wanted nothing more than a warm bath and a soft pillow, or if not that then at least the comforting nothingness of the oblivion he had just been in, but some force that he couldn’t be bothered to identify urged him to open his eyes and get up. The first one he managed –only just, as the stark contrast between the dark and the grey sky above him made his head pound angrily- the second had him reeling in pain and biting back a scream as he attempted it.

Oh. He had forgotten about that. There was a mighty nice gash on his side, courtesy of an orcish blade, still bleeding sluggishly onto the ice. Bilbo would later look back and realize that the ice probably saved his life, slowing the bleeding long enough for the wound to clot, but at the moment he was cursing it, as now that he was awake there was no way the shivers that it brought would let him slip off again so easily.  
He could recall that he had been stupid enough to jump in front of the blade, and that he likely would have been fine if his wraith-like figure had not allowed the loose mithril he had been wearing –was still wearing- to ride up under his shirt as he jumped. Stupid to think himself impervious because of it. He could also recall that there had been some very important, pressing matter that was the reason he has done as he had, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was.

He also felt a deep disappointment as he twisted his head this way and that and realized he was alone up on the ice.

Shouldn’t there have been someone else here? He could have sworn that there was- oh. He had forgotten about that too.

Thorin, idiot that he was, had decided that facing down the pale orc alone on Ravenhill was a good idea. Or at least not as stupid an idea as it really was. So naturally, Bilbo, as it seemed fate had decided to make him Thorin’s keeper, had run up as fast as he could (really quite an impressive time considering his short legs) to warn the four that had made it up there of their impending slaughter, only to be stuck watching Thorin crumble for a second time as Fili was held high above him in the grip of his foe.

If not for the saving grace of his ring and –he nearly blew his cover masking a hysterical giggle at this- his skill at conkers, Thorin’s sister son would not have been able to roll out of Azog’s grip and shimmy down the cliff while the orc was temporarily blinded by a rock to his temple.

Now, neither Thorin nor his sister sons were anywhere to be found from Bilbo’s limited perspective on the ground, which was both worrying and relieving at the same time.

What of Kili? Didn’t he head up to where Fili had been? How long did the battle continue after he was out? Did _any_ of them make it out alive, or at least without mortal wounds?

Thorin- from what he could recall- had at least taken a sword to his foot and a blow to his skull the last time Bilbo saw him, which was just before Azog was about to force his blade right through Thorin’s chest.  
He had looked… so resigned. Broken in a way that defied description, as if the only honor he could hope to find at the end of their mad quest was death as he fought the orc that was the bane of his existence. That was something Bilbo could never allow, even if he had been banished, had given up not only the tentative hope of _more_ between them that had started growing in Laketown, but any hope of friendship as well. He could not let Thorin Oakenshield fall.

That was how he had gotten where he was now, by bodily flinging himself between Azog and Thorin, as if the weak shield of a half- starved Hobbit draped in a baggy shirt of mithril like a child wearing his parent’s clothes would be able to stop the orc. It would seem that at least the surprise of an unseen blockade- as Bilbo realized that he both had been and still was wearing his ring- did something, as neither being was still on the ice with him.

He now had several options. One, seeing as he was very much injured and found the idea of death not nearly as terrifying in that moment as he would have less than a year ago, he could simply close his eyes and settle for not knowing what had happened, and being content in that he did what he thought was right. The second option, which he really rather didn’t want to consider as his side was still screaming in pain, was to get up and go find out for himself what happened- that was if he could even make it to his feet not to mention the gates of Erebor. Bilbo supposed that he could also lay there and see if his voice wanted to work at all, and perhaps call for help, but as he inhaled to make any sort of noise his ribs protested violently. And- he thought miserably, it wasn’t very likely that anyone would hear him, or even be looking as far away from the main fight as he was.

 _Fine_. The second option it was.

If anyone had been around, Bilbo might have thought that it took him an embarrassingly long time to even manage sitting, nonetheless standing, but as it was he managed both after slipping his ring off and into his pocket just in time to notice that the sky above him was darkening with the telltale signs of night, even through the heavy layer of clouds that obscured the heavens.  
Heaving a sigh that demonstrated his entirely too put upon nature, Bilbo began the long and arduous trek down from Ravenhill, noting this time around that it was a far longer hike than he remembered.

‘ _Nothing like the fear of orcs and death to make time pass quickly._ ’

His sense of humor had really grown quite maudlin over the quest, Bilbo noted. It was probably Bofur’s fault. Scratch that, it was definitely Bofur’s fault. He should have expected it from their growing friendship, especially given the fact that the first memorable words from him brought poor Bilbo to fainting dead away on his nice (muddied with dwarven boot prints) parlor rug.

Bilbo found himself glad for it, hobbitish propriety be damned, because he had never been more himself than he was when with his dwarves. Although, he supposed they weren’t his dwarves anymore.

Not after the whole business with the Arkenstone, with the way unshed tears- of anger or sadness Bilbo would never know- sharpened the blue of Thorin’s eyes as he cursed the _Halfling_. No, he wasn’t Bilbo, burglar, friend to the company anymore, he was just the useless _Halfling_ that they dragged along from the Shire at the behest of a wizard.

Would they even tell him the state of his friends? He couldn’t very well just march into Erebor and demand to know what happened, he was still banished. That thought made his stomach turn, if he had learned one thing in particular over the course of the quest he learned that dwarves are stubborn, and with that they rarely- if ever- go back on their word. Even if Thorin repealed his banishment, the fact remained that he still betrayed them, he still gave the Arkenstone to Bard and Thranduil knowing full well what it meant to Thorin, to all of them. No, he couldn’t go into Erebor. Not now, not ever.

Bilbo trudged, and kept trudging, until he thought he just might keel over from sheer exhaustion. He ended up finding himself not quite at the foot of the mountain, but close enough to it to see the dim glow of torches near the healing tents, and far toward the eastern edge of the mountain, the bonfires in full swing burning the corpses of orcs and goblins.

The armies of Elves, Men and Dwarves alike had all had time to scour the battlefield for their fallen and wounded, and with their own unique precision and efficiency (that of the dwarves and Elves anyway, the Men didn’t really have much besides their persons) set up a veritable town of tents hastily erected against the night’s chill.

It was really quite impressive, and Bilbo found himself drifting down toward the warmth of other living beings before he became aware of himself and stopped. He couldn’t just waltz in there, even if it wasn’t technically inside Erebor, it was highly likely that he would be recognized- if not by the dwarves themselves then by some of the Men or Elves that had been close enough to observe his banishment and near death experience- and then he would have to face the company, face Thorin, and he couldn’t do that, Not yet at least.

He found himself leaning against a tree that had grown against a rocky overhang on the side of the mountain; not much in the way of a cave, but at least it was some form of shelter as night drew in. Bilbo figured he could sort out a course of action tomorrow if he was still alive to see it, and he thought with unnatural detachment that he almost didn’t want to be. He couldn’t handle seeing the evidence of his betrayal written all over the faces of his friends, couldn’t handle it the first time, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to deal with it for a second.

As he drifted off into a frozen oblivion, he chuckled morbidly to himself.

_‘What would the company think of me now? The fussy burglar hobbit of the Shire freezing to death in a coat of mithril on a mountainside ‘how far he has fallen from his armchair and his garden’. Better here, I think, than having to watch their disappointment at my failings.’_


	2. Creativity has died

Despite his misgiving about ‘tomorrow’ from the night previous, Bilbo was awoken by the pleasant sound of birdsong and sunlight.

 _‘How terribly cruel that I am in no state to enjoy it.’_ He thinks.

Taking stock of himself, Bilbo finds a few more hurts that he hadn’t noticed before, tallying them up in his mind before deciding what to do about them.

  


  1. Starting with the obvious, the gash on his side. It stung something awful, and when he sat up and pulled his shirt up to look at it, it was bleeding sluggishly where it seemed he managed to tear it partially open as he woke; it had a very disconcerting shade of yellow around it that made him vaguely ill.
  2. He also apparently took a knock to the head, as he found blood encrusted along his temple and in his curls. He found the wound when probing along his skull, and after hissing violently, swore to not touch it again.
  3. He had numerous cuts and bruises, many of which stung and ached like he had never thought possible, and his left wrist twinged angrily if he moved it too much in one direction or another.



  


For the first he tried to wipe up the blood and grime as best he could, before tearing off a strip from the bottom of his shirt and doing his best to bind it. Unfortunately it bled through rather quickly, but didn’t seem inclined to completely soil the makeshift bandage, so Bilbo considered it a success. He also attempted to clean some of the blood from his forehead and hair, all the while studiously avoiding going anywhere near the actual injury.

            After standing shakily and moving to where he could once again observe the makeshift camp in front of Erebor, Bilbo thought. He thought about many things, some he probably needn’t be focusing on at all, such as the nice feeling of warm sunlight, and others that were quite weighty and require much mulling over, leaving him standing and pondering for the better part of an hour before he moved.

            Steadfastly ignoring the pain in his side and the tingling warning of doom growing at the back of his mind as he descended the slope, Bilbo garnered the attention of what looked to be one of the men of Laketown who seemed to be on watch. He greeted the man before he could call out to his fellows, and for that Bilbo was glad.

            The guard couldn’t have been more than twenty in the years of Men, and looked ill-suited for both the position of guard and the war that had just been fought. Scraggly dark hair tumbled down past his shoulders, and if it weren’t for the wide-eyed surprise at seeing someone coming down the mountain, his grim demeanor could almost have him mistaken for a younger Bard.

“You’re… not a dwarf.”

Bilbo sighed. Clearly his lack of dwarf-ness was going to become a theme _again_ , but at least he wasn’t recognized. “And you’re not an elf. Clearly that makes both of us the wiser.”

The man looked mildly affronted for a moment, before his shoulder slumped and he let out a half-hearted chuckle.

“Indeed, and who do I have the pleasure of greeting this fine morning at the foot of the Lonely Mountain?”

Here Bilbo paused, was it really a good idea to tell him? As a hobbit, he knew that even among other races gossip can spread like wildfire in close quarters, and even if this particular man didn’t know him, others could probably fit the pieces together. Even still, it wasn’t as if he planned on staying long, he couldn’t head back to the Shire alone for he would surely die, but perhaps if he found Gandalf…

  


“Bilbo. Just Bilbo, at your service.” He gave a slight bow of his head.

“I’m Feanor, at yours Master not-a-dwarf.” He returned the nod. “What can I do for ya?”

“I’m looking for the Wizard, Gandalf, you wouldn’t have seen him anywhere around would you?”

“Tall, dressed in all grey with a tacky hat? Aye, I saw him. Headin’ out with that Thranduil fellow and Bard, somethin’ about a peace treaty?” Here he leaned back against one of many barrels surrounding the nearest tent, having deemed the hobbit if not entertaining then at least not a threat.

“Dunno why we’d need one, after fighting all those orcs together you’d think that we’d be able to get along.”

“If I know one thing of dwarves and elves Master Feanor, it’s that bad blood isn’t easily forgotten.” Even if Bilbo wholeheartedly agreed with him, he knew it would still be a long while before anything resembling trust came between the two groups.

  


‘ _And what of your betrayal? They won’t forget that anytime soon.’_ Bilbo grimaced.

“Did you see where they were going?” If he was lucky maybe he could catch them…

“Aye, they went into the mountain lookin’ for that dwarf king of theirs, guess he was in bad enough shape that he couldn’t be moved, poor fellow. Although, I hear it was him who refused to hand over the gold he promised us…”

Feanor went on about Thorin and ‘poor Bard, I don’ think he wants to be king’, but Bilbo tuned him out.

He knew Gandalf would likely stay in the mountain until he accomplished whatever he decided was his business, and as the meddling fool he was, that likely entailed everything under the sun that he thought could help, not to mention any of his strange ‘wizard business’ that had cropped up at any and all inopportune moments during the quest. He also knew that Thorin and Thranduil would likely be there until next Durin’s day with Bard just stuck in the middle if the wizard didn’t mediate.

He also realized with a jolt, he now knew that Thorin was alive. Unable to be moved apparently, but alive.

  


“What do you know of the Dwarf king?” He cut off Feanor’s ramblings, trying not to sound too interested in what he’d just asked.

“Not too much, just the word that got around, but it seemed he took a bit of a tumble up on that ice o’er there, got knocked around a bit before he got rid of that one pasty fellow with that crazy arm of his.” Feanor lazily took out a pipe and lit it.

“Heard there were five of ‘em up there, just five against all those orcs can you imagine? From what I heard only four made it down, still, miraculous that any of ‘em did. That king o’ theirs was one, and apparently he was bein’ carried by a real gruff fellow, wouldn’t let anyone near but the two who followed him down.”

So Fili, Kili and Dwalin all made it out as well. Bilbo could feel a weight lifting from his chest he hadn’t known had been there until it had gone. He knew little of the rest of the company, but they hadn’t been nearly as outnumbered as Thorin had, and he felt at least a little confidence in their survival.

“It’s… nice to know they survived at least.” Bilbo was trying to feign indifference but it was difficult, and Feanor gave him an odd look before shrugging and deciding it was none of his business anyway.

“Aye, death don’t discriminate, but it’s nice to see life where you can, especially after somethin’ like this.” He dumped his pipe before shuffling it back into the pocket of his tunic, turning to head farther into the encampment.

  


“My next shift doesn’t start till dusk, but yer welcome company any time Master not-a-dwarf.”

After Feanor had given a mock salute and vanished into the sea of tent canvas Bilbo was left unsure and alone.


	3. Ehhy, POV change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly what the title imples

Thorin was staring. At the ceiling. Like he had been for the past hour. Given the circumstances, this was nothing unusual, as he had nothing else to do besides remain bed-ridden and he had no company partly because anyone who was able to move was hard at work, and partly because he hadn’t said a word to anyone, not even to Óin who had only gotten grunts to affirm or negate his questions.

If anyone had asked him, and he felt like responding, he would have said he was looking for answers.

Why he thought he was going to find them written on the ceiling of the recently cleared sick ward was anyone’s guess, even still, he found he couldn’t draw his eyes away from the swirls of light and dark in the perfectly cut stone, nor his thoughts away from replaying the scene on top of Ravenhill.

He had been convinced he was going to die, there was nothing for it. He was alone, Dwalin and his sister sons nowhere to be seen.

‘ _Please let them be alive, please let them have gotten out of here.’_

He could see only white, the ice surrounding him on all sides, the pale clouds framing Azog’s snarling face above him. Thorin was sure that if he had looked a bit harder he could also see red, the blood spilt because of him, because he lost himself so entirely to greed that he couldn’t see past his long nose that Bilbo had been right. It seemed Bilbo was always right, especially when Thorin vehemently disagreed with him only to be proven wrong, so very wrong.

There was nothing to be done for it now, Bilbo was long gone from that wretched place, safe on his way back to his armchair and people who could at least treat him with the decency he deserved. He _had_ to be.

If Thorin could think nothing else before he died, he would be content in the knowledge that he hadn’t dragged his dearest friend down with him, his— no. He wasn’t worthy of Bilbo’s love, and in hindsight he never had been. It was a fool’s hope, and he was nothing if not a fool.

To think that he alone deserved this victory, of the mountain, of the battle, even over Azog was only the dream of an exiled king so lost in his own greivings he couldn’t see himself for what he truly was, couldn’t see his people for who they were.

‘ _Is this gold really worth more than your honor?’_

He should have been content, they had made a life in the Blue Mountains, not anything comparable to what Erebor had once been, but a life that was good and full nonetheless. His people were alive, and they finally had a home, one they could be proud of for they had built it from the ground up with their own hands. No longer were the days of wandering and starving in the swindling villages of Men, no longer were the days of hopelessness and praying just to make it another year. And yet… And yet.

Here he was, driven solely by the goal of forging a path home for his people, to the point that his single-mindedness made him miss that he had already accomplished that. He had been so caught up in leading forward, ever onward, that he forgot what it meant to rule.

He may have returned to them a Mountain, but it was nothing but a tomb, for the memories of what once was and for the king that had fought so foolishly to get it back.

 

… Except, then it wasn’t. When he expected cool metal in his flesh and the triumphant grin of his killer, he got instead the sound of tearing flesh that was not his own and a mask of confusion from Azog that was accompanied by a heart-wrenchingly familiar whimper that most certainly didn’t come from the orc.

Even in his state of confusion and probably blood-loss induced hallucination, he took the opportunity for what it was- a distraction- and separated Azog’s head from his shoulders.

He then had managed to back up a few feet, and promptly blacked out.

 

In his ruminations however, Thorin came to realize that it really couldn’t have been a hallucination. Having replayed it so many times, there was no way that Azog could have simply let his blade meet air and conveniently given Thorin the opportunity to decapitate him. That wasn’t how luck worked.

The thing was, if he thought too hard about it, Thorin would come to the realization that the only ‘luck’ he had come across on the ice had been a particular hobbit with a terribly convenient trinket of invisibility that made all the pieces of the puzzle fit together.

But he wouldn’t- couldn’t think too hard about it. Because if he did, he would find a dead hobbit laying cold and unmoving on the ice in defense of a king and friend who had forsaken him, who did not deserve such loyalties. And if he did that, all his self-assurances would be for naught, the one person who he truly wanted to save, the one person who did not deserve the fate he met, did not deserve all the cruelties dealt upon him throughout the quest, that one person would be dead.

And Bilbo Baggins Was. Not. Dead.

 

Thorin sighed as he had been doing for a while now, ignoring the burn of his bruised ribs. If only he could get out of this forsaken bed! But no, he was under strict orders to remain immobile for the remainder of the week or, “Whenever I decide your body can keep up with your thick head laddie.”

Thorin was going to ask Gandalf about cursing Óin to be unable to speak so he couldn’t order any more bed rest. Gandalf would tell him to find another wizard.

‘ _Speak of the wizard and he shall come.’_ Thorin though with sarcastic joy as Gandalf’s signature hat became visible in the doorframe.

His irritation was only increased as who else should appear behind the old coot besides Thranduil. Oh, and Bard, but Thorin didn’t mind him nearly as much, only the guilt that came from holding eye contact too long.

Gandalf seemed oblivious to the tension in the room, or perhaps he was intentionally ignoring it, but Bard fidgeted uncomfortably as the Elven King and Thorin Oakenshield tried to incinerate the other with their eyes.

Before the silence became too awkward Gandalf intervened, much to Bard’s relief.

“Thorin, it’s good to see you’re awake.” He smiled, the one where you couldn’t tell if he looked like a grandfather patiently dealing with misbehaving Dwarflings or the cat that got the canary- the smug bastard who had all the secrets of the universe at the tip of his tongue, but was refusing to tell a soul.

Neither pleased the king, so he simply grunted an acknowledgement and refused to break eye contact.

“Indeed,” Bard coughed. “When I heard you had been brought from Ravenhill unconscious I feared the worst.”

Another grunt.

“…”

“Perhaps,” drawled Thranduil, breaking the spell and turning to take the only available chair in the room. “We should discuss matters of importance when the king is well enough to form words.” The damn eyebrows. It’s like they were their own entity, silently mocking any to whom the Elven King spoke.

“I have few words you would like to hear.” Thorin winced at how rough his voice sounded, though it was to be expected as he hadn’t used it for the better part of two days.

“Even still, Thorin. We have much to discuss, and I would appreciate if you would at least listen to King Thranduil and King Bard, nothing needs to be decided today.”

“As you wish.” Thorin realized that as much as he might hope, he couldn’t keep dwelling on ifs or maybe’s, only moving forward could bring him answers, even if they weren’t the ones he wanted.

His sister would be arriving soon, his missive having been received and returned well before the battle even began. Hopefully, with Dís at his side Thorin could make some sense out of not only Erebor’s future, but his own jumble of emotions. And maybe, just maybe he could begin to move forward.


	4. Hey look Feanor's back, he just wants to help

Bilbo had been wandering about the camp for the past two hours and had, in that time; nearly skinned his knee a few times launching himself behind assorted barrels (not easy with a stab wound) to avoid being seen by Bofur, Dwalin and Dori as they went about their business, managed to kidnap a waterskin, loaf of bread and a bruised apple from one tent that seemed to hold temporary food supplies from the elves, and tried to determine the whereabouts of the entire company (the ‘ri’s were all unharmed for the most part and spent most of their time either with the ‘ur’s watching over Bifur in the mountain as apparently the ax had removed itself from his skull sometime during the battle, or running messages around the camp while Glόin followed his brother around more or less everywhere, though dedicating most of their time to Thorin, Fili and Kili who were all injured but alive in the confines of Erebor. Dwalin and Balin seemed to be head over beard in whatever political intrigue was going on, and were therefore everywhere at once apparently.)

Knowing all his friends fared well, or as well as could be expected, put Bilbo’s heart at ease and he begun to realize just how tired he really was.

Bilbo found some rubble that had a nice view of both the gate and camp without leaving him too exposed and he settles down to eat. He groaned in ecstasy when he took a bite of the apple and bread together, despite the apple being too soft and the bread being dry and tasteless as was expected from lembas, at least it wasn’t Cram.

Swearing to never eat Cram again if he could help it, Bilbo tucked away what remained of his food, having made an effort to ration it that was far more difficult than it should have been, and sat back against the rock, warmed by the sun despite the chill of winter.

He watched the elves and men either stride about with purpose, or meander, speaking with those they encountered or simply seeking quiet sanctuary from recent events. As his eyelids grew heavier against conscious thought, their forms swam in his vision like ants.

‘ _How odd, that even after such chaos something so… normal? No it’s a war camp, nothing normal about it. But perhaps… hopeful? Yes, and domestic; to see that not all is lost even when so much had been taken from you, and to see that the world can move on, that is what this is. It’s absolutely magnificent_.’ He thought.

Bilbo then promptly fell asleep without even realizing it.

 

* * *

 

 

When Bilbo woke, it was to a soft, if cold breeze sending his hair into his face. The sky told him that he had been asleep for most of the afternoon, and that the sun should be setting in a bit.

Apparently his small snack had been sorely needed; he found that he felt better than he had in days, the ache in his head was gone and his stomach had temporarily ceased in its surprisingly tenacious efforts to devour him from the inside out unsuccessfully, though certainly not for lack of trying. Equally, he had apparently been visited by Feanor, finding a note accompanying a bowl of now-cold soup and more bread.

 

_Master Not-A-Dwarf,_

_I had thought that I’d seen you coming up here as I was leaving from my own lunch and had thought to bring you some, however when I got here you were already asleep and I had not the heart to wake you from what looked to be sorely needed rest. Either way, I hope this food finds you well when you wake, and should you wish to revisit my company when my guard shift begins I will try to have something else for you._

_Your friend, Feanor_

 

Bilbo found his eyes watering, and it took him a moment to realize it wasn’t from the cold. It hadn’t been so long since someone last thought of him kindly, but it certainly seemed so. And for a man he had only just met that morning to care enough about his wellbeing to bring him food when there was a camp full of people in which he probably had family or friends who could easily take priority, well, the kindness was just too much for poor Bilbo’s battle and betrayal weary heart to take. Feanor had even called him friend, now, when he wasn’t sure he had a friend in the world.

A few tears slipped down his face as he gave a watery laugh.

‘ _Bilbo, you silly old fool. Not_ everyone _in the world hates you._ ’

Having eaten his soup and reveled once again in the joy that was not-Cram, Bilbo began his trek back down to the camp, planning for the night ahead.

He needed to find a place to sleep, but he had already decided that if he intended to remain anonymous he couldn’t stay in any of the tents. Feanor might have forced Bilbo to take a cot in one of the tents if he got word of any of it, but maybe….

 

It took surprisingly little time to find him, despite dusk still being nearly an hour away and as luck seemed to be on his side, Bilbo found Feanor lazily smoking his pipe all alone in a sparsely populated part of the camp.

“Fancy seeing you here Master Not-An-Elf.” Feanor startled and whipped his head around, however immediately relaxing his posture once he saw Bilbo.

After turning around to face him, pipe still between his teeth Feanor picked up the playful tone.

“I don’ see why, I practically live here.” He looks around at the tents, an unfortunate reminder that lake town was naught more than ash, even if he hadn’t meant it as such. “What can I do ya for Master Bilbo? After more of that soup?”

“It was quite good, even if I let it get cold snoozing the day away. Anything is better than _Cram_.”

Feanor laughed, a surprisingly lovely sound, and it made Bilbo wonder if the man ever had much reason to do so.

“Aye, I’d sooner eat my own foot than another bit of it that the Master passes off as rations. At least _that_ might have some flavor!” This time they both chuckled and Bilbo joined him on the barrels, having to swing his legs a bit to get up.

“I really must thank you Feanor. I doubt many would have gone out of their way to bring me food, even if they did know me, which you barely do. You are very kind.”

“No need ta thank me, just did what any decent fella would have done. Besides, can’t have you starvin’ on me and deprivin’ me of your wonderful company during my watch now eh?”

“No, I suppose not.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, and Bilbo pondered how he was going to ask what he needed.

He had planned, not without some remorse, to see just how far Feanor’s generosity went, Bilbo himself couldn’t go through tent after tent looking for a bedroll to take with him, that would attract too much attention and be too much of a risk of him getting caught.

Feanor on the other hand not only likely knew where bedrolls would be, thereby eliminating the need for a search, but no one would likely bat an eye at another of the menfolk grabbing one.

“Feanor?”

“Aye?”

“I was wondering,” Bilbo almost felt as if he were riddling with Smaug again, except Feanor he actually liked. “Would you happen to know where the bedrolls are? Where I’m staying there aren’t any available cots and I’d prefer to have something between me and the ground at night.”

There. Technically not a lie.

“Aye, I think I know where to find one anyway. But ya shouldn’t have to be lyin’ on the ground at all, there’s probably an open bed in one of the tents I’ve been stayin’ in, ya could even take my bed if it came down to it, why don’t ya just stay with me?”

Dear, sweet Feanor. For a startling moment Bilbo was reminded of Bofur, the kind Dwarf always offering to share his food if the hobbit was hungry, or his blanket if the hobbit was cold. Once he had even taken off his beloved hat and plopped it on Bilbo’s head when he was sneezing away on a mountain pass. He had even offered his own pocket as a handkerchief before he had even truly known Bilbo. And here was Feanor doing the same thing, only with a lot less tearing of tunics and no nose blowing involved.

After a polite but firm refusal, and skirting around the issue of where he was actually sleeping with the half-truth of ‘I need to be close to my friends, they were very badly injured,’ Bilbo found himself waiting for Feanor to return from his quest.

 _‘I’ll see what I can find for ya, hopefully make it a bit easier bein’ close to yer friend an all,’_ Was the last he had heard from the man before he disappeared into the sea of tents.

Bilbo found himself feeling a little guilty for his avoidance, the man really did seem to care about his wellbeing and here Bilbo was using him to get supplies so he could go sleep in a cave at the foot of the mountain.

Either way he needed a bedroll.

 

Feanor had returned with not only a very warm bedroll that beat out any and every shitty blanket Bilbo had had to suffer underneath on the quest, but also a small pillow, a soft cloth and a bowl _(in case they’ve a fever needs tendin.’_ ), two clean shirts that would look like nightgowns on him and some bandages for ‘just in case’. Bilbo could kiss him. Or blubber at his feet like an infant, which seemed the more likely of the two after his waterworks earlier that day, so he beat a hasty and strategic retreat.

As he stared sleepily up at the gray stone above him, having just washed and rewrapped his wound (Was it more yellow than last time?) and settled in to sleep, Bilbo wondered just what he had done to deserve such good people in his life. He must have done something, and the thought brought just the slightest glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe everything would work out okay.


	5. Enter Dragon Lady- stage right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dis is amazing and I love her. That is all.

Lady Dis hadn’t even made it past the threshold of Erebor’s gates before she was accosted by her sons- Fili and Kili throwing their arms around her as best they could with cries of “Amad!” and “Thank goodness you’re here, Uncle is being insufferable again and we can’t get him to stop!”

“Honestly, it was at least better when Master Boggins was around to keep him from brooding, but now Uncle keeps insisting that he’s gone home!”

“And without so much as a goodbye or a ‘by-your-leave’!”

While she was accustomed to her children’s rambling way of explaining things when they were stressed or excited, having just arrived with a small caravan all the way from the Blue Mountains meant she understood none of what was occurring, except that her sons were here and alive, and Thorin was apparently all right enough to be moody and irritating as always.

Good. That meant she could yell at him for dragging her sons halfway across Arda without guilt.

Fili quieted as Dis pried him off of her, taking his face in her hands and turning it this way and that, taking note of the changes since she had last seen him.

He had a long scratch under his left eye that was already healing, as well a few smaller scabs along his hairline that had nearly faded. His arm was in a sling, but it didn’t seem to be paining him too much. Travel and battle had worn him thin, but the smile he wore was genuine and the happy tears in his eyes spoke more than any words that they had missed her. She then did the same to Kili.

What nearly broke Dis’ heart however, was a look in her sons’ eyes that she had hoped to never see on another family member again. It was the look of someone who had grown up far too fast, who had been brutally forced to see the world as it truly was and had their childish innocence so cruelly shattered. It was a look that had haunted her brother’s footsteps when the dragon came, when they lost Frerin and Grandfather and every day after.

Dis pulled them both close to her, tucking their heads under her chin so they couldn’t see her tears. She was going to _kill_ Thorin. At least they hadn’t lost anyone or- Mahal forbid- each other. While it was not something she would ever have wanted for either of them, they were healing, and could continue to do so in the safety of their reclaimed kingdom amongst family.

“Now,” Dis let them step back, still holding their elbows at arm’s length. “I understood all those words individually –aside from perhaps that Master Boggins bit- but not all in a row as you had them. Mind explaining to me just what my stupid brother had been up to this past year and just what Master Boggins has to do with it?”

Kili smiled. He had made his mother say Boggins. Twice.

“The first is quite a long story in itself, and honestly the second is pretty much the same thing.” Fili paused as he turned to lead them back into the mountain. “Just… please don’t be too mean to Uncle until you hear everything? He’s… not as okay as he says he is. Especially with Bilbo gone.”

Agreeing with his brother, Kili shook his head somberly.

“Bilbo is Master Boggins, only it’s not Boggins it’s Baggins, we just like to watch him scrunch up his face when we call him that.” Fili nodded sagely, as if Bilbo’s face was the most important wisdom to be imparted.

Dis’ eyebrows rose at this, although it wasn’t very surprising given, well. Them. It was nice they could still poke fun after all that had happened.

She removed her hand from Fili’s giving a few gestures to the rest of the caravan telling them where to go before grabbing Fili’s hand up again and following her sons quietly into Erebor.

Having few memories of the kingdom in her youth had never seemed more a blessing than it did now, as Dis wasn’t sure she could have handled seeing the world her brother spoke about with such reverence in such disrepair after actually remembering it’s grandeur.

The front gate had been cleared of rubble, but farther in entire pillars had collapsed, sending spider-web cracks along the ground. What had originally looked like natural cracks she could now see were the remnants of Smaug’s claws gouging out deep crevices in the foundations, and scorch marks could be seen in near every direction. Dis could only be grateful that the dead that had remained had likely already been moved from where they died at the dragon’s wrath.

She hadn’t noticed that she had been squeezing her sons’ hands until they both squeezed back, turning to give her identical comforting smiles. ‘ _What would I ever do without them?_ ’ Dis found she really didn’t want to know.

“Perhaps you should show me around then, I’m not entirely certain that I won’t strangle your uncle immediately when I see him for all the gray hair he’s caused me these last months.”

“We’ll help you.”

“We meant it when we said he was being insufferable.” Fili and Kili shared a look that spoke of shared pain at Thorin’s obliviousness.

“I’ve heard that cousin Dain came to your aid for the battle, is he still hanging around trying to get his paws on the Arkenstone?” Dis well remembered her brother’s explanations of Dain’s refusal of aid without the accursed stone, and found that throttling him instead might be a good outlet for her feelings.

“He is. Unfortunately.” Kili began.

“Keeps trying to wedge himself in beside Balin in negotiations as if Uncle were still unconscious.”

“He’s been avoiding Thorin like the plague, I think he believes that if he ignores Uncle hard enough he just might fade out of living memory and then he could take the crown himself.” The brother’s continue batting the explanation back and forth, nodding at eachother as if they were having a conversation merely between themselves.

“Last I saw he was trying to come up with the best way to castrate and then defenestrate Thranduil without being dealt grievous bodily harm by Tauriel.”

“He was doing that… thing- you know the one- yeah that, he was doing that thing with his face again. Looked just like Uncle does when he thinks Thranduil’s not looking.”

“And then he went strutting around with the raven crown for all of an hour before Dwalin tried to murder him. I swear, Dain has all the modesty of a particularly fine peacock. That is to say, none whatsoever.”

Kili snorted. “Uncle’s no better, he’s just figured out what subtlety means. Well. Kinda.”

“He’s only subtle when it suits him. Which means never when it’s actually useful or convenient for everyone else.”

That was most certainly true. Dis had never managed to break him of the habit of following nearly every greeting with anyone who wasn’t of his kin with an insult. He also had somehow perfected looking down his nose at people many feet taller than him, a feat no one quite understood the physical possibility of, and if she hadn’t caught him practicing walking in and out of rooms with his ‘swooshy cape’ (He had honest to Mahal called it that under his breath before he had seen her watching him) she would have thought that his so-called ‘timing of majesty’ was just some blue-blood quirk of his inherited from their grandfather.

 

“My lady!” Dwalin had finally caught sight of them in the bustling crowd and had almost sprinted in a very un-Dwalin like manner to catch up with them.

“Dwalin, it has been some time since I last saw you, you fare well I trust?”

While he did have a rather impressive bruise starting under his left cheekbone and trailing underneath the collar of his tunic, he answered an affirmative. “My brother has been awaiting your arrival, he sent me to fetch you-“ Dis quirked an eyebrow and Dwalin quickly amended, “If you’re amenable of course.”

The princess hummed noncommittally and decided to prod a bit. “I think, mister Dwalin, that you will find I am very much not an object to be ‘fetched’ like a tea kettle brought to boil.”

The flush that brought to his face was priceless.

“O-of course not my Lady. My apologies.”

“Worry not Dwalin. Now, take me to your brother and we shall see if at least _he_ has managed to keep my moronic brother and cousin from destroying the mountain we just got back.”

Fili and Kili made to follow but a hand in their direction made them pause.

“My children, I would most appreciate it if you would gather my belongings from the caravan and send them wherever I shall be staying. Besides, cousin Dain and I will be having… words.”

Sharing a look that Dis knew well as the ‘ _we’re not going to actually do that when we walk away are we? Nah_ ,’ look, the brothers nodded at eachother and disappeared back into the stream of Dwarrow trying to settle the caravan before she could protest. Mahal save her from the stubbornness of dwarflings.

 

Sharing idle and lighthearted conversation as they went, Dwalin led them to what Dis vaguely recalled was some sort of council room and inside she found both Balin and Dain bent over a multitude of parchment and quills.

“Lady Dis!” Balin was the first to notice their entrance and smiled brightly at her as he stood.

“It’s good to see you well Balin.” She then turned to address her escort, ignoring Dain entirely.

“Thank you for the escort mister Dwalin, I hope to see you and your brother later to tell me all the things Thorin left out of his letters. So I shall be expecting a full recitation of the quest from start to finish when we next meet.”

Dwalin chuckled a bit and bowed out of the room. “As you wish Lady Dis.”

With the door echoing behind her, Dis turned a stony expression to her cousin who only just seemed to be realizing he might have been in trouble. She took slow and calculated steps forward, head held high with all the regality she could muster, and began backing Dain into the table as Balin wisely moved away.

“Now dearest cousin Dain, I have but one question to ask of you.”

“Ah… and w-what might that be my Lady?”

Her voice echoed around the room deafeningly, heard loud and clear by any nearby making each and every dwarf who heard it stop and cringe.

“WHAT IN MAHAL’S FUCKING NAME IS WRONG WITH YOU!?!”

 

“…”

“Cousin Dain is in for it now brother.”

“Perhaps we might relocate to the Shire with Bilbo for safety to wait this one out?”

“If only Ki. If only.”


	6. Backstory time, also what are transitions?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look at me, updating this. Poor Dain, I didn't really mean for him to be the receptacle for Dis' unbridled rage at the world, but he was convenient. Also a little misunderstood. Perhaps there will be some character development later eh? I honestly never intended for Feanor to become this big of a character, but he's more or less the bridge between our resident kings and Bilbo, because for plot purposes it couldn't really be someone who knew him and he had to get word of the goings on somehow. Either way, have another un-beta'd chapter, and lets hope I can actually manage words this time around.

“Feanor, I can’t take this.”

“Sure ya can.”

“It’s too much, really.”

Feanor once again pushed the small, wooden box into Bilbo’s hands, insisting that he take it. Inside was a lovely silver comb that, upon intense questioning from Bilbo, had been revealed as the property of Feanor’s late sister who died in the dragon fire in Laketown.

Feanor had insisted that Bilbo take it, stating that his sister would have wanted it to be used by someone who could appreciate it, after Bilbo had complained about his hair looking as if Radagast’s birds had changed residency. He had _not_ intended to once again be the recipient of Feanor’s generosity, but here they were, and he doubted that his new friend would let him leave without the box or the comb inside it.

“At least use it first if yer so set against keeping it.”

“Feanor…”

Not the eyes. Nope. He did the eyes. Drat it all.

With his ‘you are totally missing the point and I am scoffing at you, see me scoff’ noise- that until this point had been reserved solely for misbehaving fauntlings and Thorin- Bilbo reluctantly pulled out the comb and began the arduous task of fixing his curls.

The look on Feanor’s face nearly made Bilbo stick the comb in his hair instead and run away- he looked like a cat that ate an entire flock of songbirds. Smug little prick.

“I really can’t take this, it was your sister’s how could you not want to keep it?”

“Honestly?” Feanor leaned forward contemplatively. “I do.”

“Then keep it!”

“Hmmm… Let me see if I understand this, ya want me to keep the comb because it was my sister’s and you… want me to honor her memory?”

Finally! Bilbo was getting through to him! “Exactly!”

“But ya see, that’s what I’m doing by givin’ ya the comb.”

“… I don’t understand.”

His friend sighed and took out his pipe to clean it- the cue that Bilbo was about to get a story.

“My sister… she was always the more pragmatic of the two of us. We never had much, ‘specially after mum died and if it weren’t for my sister we woulda been in for a far worse lot. The only thing my sister kept that wasn’t really ‘useful’ was that comb.” He waved his pipe in Bilbo’s general direction.

“I can’t for the life of me remember where she got it, but she always had it on her; said it should be used, appreciated by whoever had it instead of just sold ‘cause it’s pretty. Always used to make fun of me she did, said I was too sentimental, tryin’ to hang on ta everything that reminded me of this or that. She woulda said the same thing if I kept ahold of that comb.”

Feanor tapped the ash out of his pipe and put it away with a look in his eyes that spoke of fond memories tinged with the melancholic reminder that those you made them with were no longer there. Bilbo knew the feeling intimately, and was reminded of Belladonna’s West Farthing dishes.

_‘Tell me, when did doilies and your mother’s dishes become so important to you?’_

_When she died._

His mother would have bent his ear for how complacent he had become, wondering where her adventurous little fauntlings had gone. Bilbo could still remember overhearing conversations between her and Bungo about proper hobbit behavior, and about how proud she was that her son shared her love of adventure and thirst for knowledge of the world.

Odd, how it took dwarves threatening his sentimental trinkets to bring him closer to his mother’s memory than he had been in years, even if it did end at a dragon infested mountain.

Feanor had managed to do what he couldn’t it seemed.

“I must tha-“ Bilbo’s thought was cut off with the sounding of a horn, and the people outside the tent clamoring towards the edge of camp. What on Arda?

“Has something happened?” Bilbo got to his feet as Feanor poked his head out of the canvas flaps to observe.

“It seems there are more dwarves on the way. Mayhaps prospective citizens?” Feanor frowned.

“For them to have gotten here so quick, that king of theirs must’ve been terribly confident in himself. Must’ve sent for them before the battle…”

A thought niggled in the back of Bilbo’s mind; a vague recollection of Thorin sending off a missive during their stay in Laketown … to the Blue Mountains perhaps? Overconfident indeed.

The both of them walked to the edge of the camp near the rocks Bilbo had fallen asleep on, having a good view of the crowd trying to get as close to the caravan as possible before it disappeared into the mountain.

All things considered it wasn’t much of a caravan, a few wagons and several dozen dwarves, but given the state of Erebor’s halls, perhaps that was a good thing.

It would be unlikely that the mountain could hold many people until more of the living areas were cleared and despite the aid Dain’s dwarves provided, such endeavors took time and resources that were scarce. With winter closing in, it also meant that the lack of additional mouths to feed would put less of a strain on Thranduil’s goodwill, leaving those wo arrived in spring time to bring the mountain and surrounding land back to life.

“I wonder who all it could be?”

Bilbo thought of Bombur’s brood, and of Gloin’s wife and son- surely they would have come at the earliest convenience?

“Dunno, hopefully none of them fancy aristocrats, we don’t need any more of the high blood squabblin’ amongst themselves when the Elvenking and that dwarf King are doing a good enough job of that already.”

Bilbo doubted that, given Thorin’s distaste for all things pompous and rich (discounting the fact that he was now both) during his exile became very apparent when he met the master of Laketown and anytime the meeting in Erid Luin was mentioned. Despite his headstrong and often foolish nature, he knew Thorin was practical above all else, and bringing in dwarves who would just upset the political scene was not something he would do.

Bilbo was brought out of his musings by a hand on his shoulder, and he jumped when he turned to find another man standing next to Feanor. He hadn’t even heard him walk up.

“I’m afraid I must take my leave now Master Not-A-Dwarf, got some business to do with changing out the guard shifts. Should see ya later though, hopefully yer hair will be in a better state by then.” Feanor then smiled and left with the stranger, leaving Bilbo alone to realize that he was still holding the silver comb.

Sentimental or not, it had been a kind gesture, and Bilbo brought the comb up to tug at his curls as he turned towards his little cave. Just one more comfort in an entirely too uncomfortable situation, especially when he remembered he needed to change his bandages.

They had been coming away stained yellow more often than not the past few times he had changed them, and while he was glad it had stopped bleeding, Bilbo was now almost certain his wound was infected. He had spent the wee hours of the morning fretting over it, eventually pushing all thoughts of ‘ _If I can’t fix it I’m going to die’_ _‘Shit, I can’t fix this, what the hell do I do?!_ ’ to the back of his mind along with his rising panic. Panicking would only make his growing nausea worse, and a hobbit that couldn’t stomach food was a … well. A dead hobbit.

Bilbo really didn’t want to think about that.


	7. Hey look, emotion!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hate Excel with a violent passion that will outlive the sun. In other news, life had been very busy and I am terrible at scheduling so when I actually have things to do my life ends up falling down around me, much as it has been these past few weeks. Even still, writing at three in the morning seems to take the edge off, even if it leaves me sleep deprived and forgetting very simple nouns, so have the result of one such spree.

Thorin was worried. That’s really all there was to it. He was worried about his kingdom, his crown, his friends, his nephews, but most importantly he was worried about his sister. Not in the same way as any of the other things he was worried about mind you, he was worried _for_ his kingdom and his nephews and all the others, but Dis- he was worried _about_ Dis.

In the many years since she was a child that could speak coherently and understood the joys of betraying her older sibling’s ventures to their parents she was a formidable foe. As such, Thorin had had much time to come up with the many ways his sister might possibly enact her retribution. It wasn’t likely to be direct, as she was the kind of person who didn’t serve revenge cold, but rather as an arctic block of ice hurled at your head long after the original transgression was forgotten by everyone but her. No, whatever she did would be slow, and dealt out tenfold to the severity of whatever action she was punishing.

Thorin’s only solace was in the fact that Dain was also likely going to be with him when his head was on the chopping block- he could enjoy the fact that when he went down he wouldn’t be going alone, but it also meant that he needed to be wary of interacting with Dain in any manner that was no less than three times removed from the princess’ direct influence.

He feared the day that Nori and Dis worked together, alone they were dangerous, but together… well, they would probably have a very dedicated spy network running all of middle earth at their command within a few months.

Thorin chose not to dwell on that.

Instead he fell deeper and deeper into a well of self-pity and anguish as the anticipation tormented him in his sick bed, and he did _not_ squeak, _thank you very much_ , when the door to his room opened.

Naturally, who would it be but the very person he least wished to see- as seemed to be the pattern these last few days- standing in the doorway, arms crossed and a scowl on her face.

“Brother.”

Thorin swallowed. “Dis.”

“You look terrible.”

“I—“

She ignored him and continued speaking, the cue that he was to keep his mouth shut until she gave him permission to do otherwise.

“Although, I suppose it should be expected, I haven’t seen you for nearly a year. All that traveling through the wilds would be hard on anyone.”

Ah, so this _was_ about his sister sons.

“And of course you nearly got yourself killed not a week ago, so I suppose I should be thankful.” Her stare told him that she actually was thankful… but only just.

“I could be here, wearing mourning colors- probably that dress I wore after we buried our family and at my husband’s funeral, all things considered the thing must be in terrible shape after all the use its gotten- and I could be sending my one remaining brother and my only two children back to the stone after they foolishly decided to fight a dragon and then a full-on war against not only my advice but that of many others.”

“…”

“Dis, I—“

“No.”

Dis sighed- a bone-deep, weary thing that told him more than any words just how tired and upset his sister really was. He knew it was most certainly his fault.

“No, brother, I don’t want to hear it. You’ll be apologizing here until the world’s rebirth if you start now, and I’d rather you at least _try_ to be a useful lump of a king and listen to me.”

She took a seat on the edge of Thorin’s bed as he shifted to make room for her, and took his hand in her own with a small, mournful smile.

“I missed you, y’know.”

“And I you, Dis.”

She looked him in the eye as her anger faded from her posture, not gone- both knew she was still bloody pissed at Thorin- but faded, showing the kind yet sorrowful heart that was so often hidden behind the jaded mask that everyone else knew.

Thorin took the peace offering for what it was and put his arms around his sister, heart aching as she clung to him with her breath hitching around sobs.

“I almost lost you. I almost lost the only family I have left, you daft fool.” She hiccupped as Thorin ran his large palms up and down her back in a soothing gesture. “I don’t know how but you did it. Somehow you- you gave us back our home, gave my sons the chance to actually be princes.” She paused. “Thank you for keeping them safe for me.”

Thorin closed his eyes against a well of tears at that; they were only ever in danger because of his own foolishness.

“Of course my dear sister, they are my life as much as they are yours.” _Coward_.

 

Dis knew that wasn’t true, if it was he would never have concocted his frankly suicidal scheme of retaking Erebor, but she let it lie. Her brother loved Fili and Kili, but a part of his heart was always going to be saved for their people and for Erebor. He may have been a father to them when Vili couldn’t, but not even that could rival a mother’s love.

She quieted her crying to light sniffling, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of the blanket as she removed herself from Thorin’s embrace. She had things to discuss with him after all.

“I’ve heard from some of our relations that someone has caught your eye after all these years…”

Dis withheld her snickering as her brother stiffened, and then tried to act unaffected by her words. ‘ _So, I was right.’_

“So it’s true, my brother- eternal bachelor king, haunted exile of Erebor married to his mountain- has finally fallen in lo~ove!”

Laughter finally broke out as she danced out of Thorin’s reach when he made a grab at her, cackling madly when he blushed and started grumbling about ‘nosy sisters who need to mind their own business.’

“Who is it? One of your company? Perhaps that Bofur fellow, he seems like he could keep you in check. Or is it one of the Iron Hills dwarrow? Dain will have a fit…”

Dis trailed off, almost having missed the tension that took her brother’s frame at her second question. It was one of the company then, but whoever it was made Thorin upset. It must not have gone well then.

“So it’s one of your company then. I say, I don’t see what the issue is, they all seemed like good dwarrow to me. Even that Nori fellow when he isn’t doing his best to get in other people’s pockets.”

Thorin didn’t respond. Instead he chose to look anywhere but at his sister, hunching his shoulders and looking generally miserable.

A thought occurred to Dis. Well, several thoughts actually, but one that almost made her regret laughing at her brother’s obvious romantic misery.

“Is… are they your One?”

A nod.

Dis took in a deep breath. This just got a bit more complicated.

“What happened? I’m assuming you at least told them.”

Thorin paused and then tentatively shook his head. Mahal save her from the stubbornness of brothers.

 

“Well if you haven’t told them no wonder you’re miserable. You’re missing out, why wouldn’t you tell them? You’re quest is over, you have your mountain, what’s stopping you?” Leave it to her brother to be the one Dwarrow in existence to deny himself his One.

It was Thorin’s turn to sigh; he knew he wasn’t getting out of this, and Dis wouldn’t drop it until she could do truly, absolutely nothing about it. Which she couldn’t.

“I have several reasons.” He stopped.

Dis gave him the look that said ‘ _you’re a bigger idiot than I thought if you think I’m leaving without all the details._ ’ She always said he wore his heart on his sleeve, and even now Thorin knew he could hide nothing from his sister.

“You are correct in your assumption; someone in the company is my One.” She noted he said ‘someone’, as if there was something he was intentionally leaving out…

“This someone… I have wronged greatly, I was no less than cruel to him from the beginning of our journey, and I let my pride cloud my judgement even when we were on more amicable terms. Before the battle… I…” Dis began to truly worry as her brother started crying, seemingly unaware of the tears running down his face.

“Dis, I tried to kill him.” Thorin whispered, and it was such a wretched sound, such a terrible heart-wrenching sound, that Dis found herself once again seated at her brother’s bedside, this time their positions reversed.

“The gold sickness took me Dis, I-I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, everything was wrong I wasn’t… I wasn’t _me_ anymore. And my One, Bilbo, he was only trying to help, he saw what was happening and did his best to stop us, to stop _me_ from bringing ruin to us all, and I nearly threw him to his death over a _stone_ Dis, a bloody shiny _rock_.” He spit the last words with so much venom Dis nearly drew away in shock. Was he talking about the Arkenstone?

“And now he’s gone, safe on his way home, Dis he _has_ to be. I can’t- he couldn’t…” Thorin broke down into mournful, keening sobs then, and Dis finally understood her sons’ concern. She hadn't seen her brother this broken in a long time, if ever. The closest she could remember was when they lost Frerin, father and grandfather in one fell swoop, but even then the pressures of leading a wandering people kept him from truly mourning until the distance had softened the impact.

“Oh, Thorin…”

Really, what could she say? That it would be all right? Any Dwarf worth their salt would be well within their rights to take her brother’s braids, king or not, for what he admitted. And all things considered she wouldn’t blame them.

The broken sobs coming from her brother who had buried himself in her hair made Dis very conflicted. She wanted to be angry on Thorin’s behalf, angry at whoever brought him such misery when he should be so very proud. But she also understood very well the need to not suffer fools, and her brother was very much a fool in this. He wrought his own misery with his anger, no matter how misplaced or symptomatic, and he had lost himself the other half of his soul in consequence.


	8. And so begins the Society of the Durin Minders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess who finally got around to planning out this story properly! Me! And boy lemme tell you, it ended up getting away from me and is now far longer than I intended, but hopefully that turns out to be a good thing. I also don't know if any of you noticed, but I have been shamelessly making parallels between Feanor the guard and Fëanor the elf and will continue to do so just as shamelessly, even though Feanor the guard is a bit more toned down and more of a redeemed version of everyones favorite Tengwar script creator. Also, can anyone guess who the third member of the Durin Minders Society is?

 

If anyone asked, Thorin would have muttered that the hour or two spent alone with his sister was filled with a sound tongue-lashing on her part and reticent acknowledgement on his, and Dis would have simply worn a smirk that implied her brother was soundly reprimanded, and that any details would be left to the imagination. Even though that was not the case, and the time had been spent in tears on both sides as a mutual cleansing of emotion rather than yelling and subsequent brooding, no one did ask, and for that they both were thankful.

 

Dis had removed herself from her brother’s room leaving him to sleep, thinking deeply on what she had discovered.

Thorin had a One- Bilbo Bogg- _no_ , Baggins. He had to have been the one the company picked up on the way as their burglar, as Dis had met all the company before they departed the mountains. His name gave her pause, as dwarrows didn’t have surnames, and even just ‘Bilbo’ was odd for a dwarven name.

Although, there had been those who, after the fall of Erebor, took to maintaining a wandering lifestyle; they often found viable work in the villages of men in any and all crafts or services, not limited to those that were traditionally dwarven. Dis had met several of such individuals, and a number of them had taken more mannish names to aid their work, or keep themselves hidden in plain sight. If this Baggins character was indeed a burglar- not a dwarvish occupation at all- then it would make sense that he might be one of those who took a false name to protect himself in his profession.

 _‘He must be very good at his job.’_ Dis thought. _‘He manage to burgle my brother’s heart right out of his chest.’_

Little did Dis know (though she was about to find out) her brother wasn’t the only one of her kin to have their heart stolen.

 

 

As she walked, (wandered moreof; she had no idea where she was headed) Dis ruminated on her own tale of love. Not a day went by that her heart didn’t ache for Vili, such a gentle soul to her tempered mithril. Neither nobility nor a warrior, Vili had captured her attention with his golden hair and soft demeanor, a surprisingly welcome change from the normal posturing she was so used to. He had proven again and again to defy her expectations; where others chose axes he chose a bow, where they were stout and built his strength was in long, lithe muscles, where temper was a pot set to boil over he was a calm lake on a soft summer day, where pride took over he saw reason.

Despite his absence Dis could see him oh so clearly in her sons, Fili had his temper; patient and understanding, but nowhere close to a pushover, while Kili had his eternal optimism and disregard for the opinions of others.

He was her One and not even birthright (or lack thereof) could be used to disrupt that bond.

Hell, even if Thorin’s One had been a bloody elf she would have supported him, Dis knew what it was to live without your One, and she’d be damned if she let anything (even his own bullheadedness) stand in the way of her brother’s happiness.

 

Lady Dis found that she had led herself to the old royal wing, a part of Erebor that she could actually remember past vague reckonings and glimpses, and to her great surprise she found it wasn’t empty or desolate as she would have expected.

No, in fact, aside from the obvious clean-up that had been done- which was really only a lot of dusting and refurnishing as Smaug hadn’t gotten that far into the mountain- there was also life. Dis heard voices coming from a nearly closed door at the end of the hall, two of them she would know anywhere as Fili and Kili, and the other was… distinctly feminine.

 

 

Peeking in through the slightly open door Dis saw Fili lounging lengthwise across a large armchair, twiddling one of his daggers in his good hand, Kili laying on his stomach also lengthwise across a bed smiling besottedly while his brother made gagging noises, at… an elf.

Dis’ gaze flickered rapidly between the look on Kili’s face and the answering smile on the elf’s. Oh. Maybe she hadn’t been too far off with that elf comment. It seemed it was just in reference to the wrong relative.

Very few things in life managed to give Dis pause, and while that particular revelation was certainly one of them, she quickly righted herself.

Her son seemed to be in love with an elf. Just how far that love went was anyone’s guess, but if it was serious it wouldn’t do to give a bad impression, not if she was going to support him in this. And she _was_ going to support him, come Mordor or high water.

As Dis was preparing to open the door, she noticed the talking had ceased. Right, elves have exceptionally good hearing. No use dawdling then.

She might have laughed at the horror painting her sons’ faces as she walked in in other circumstances, but instead Dis turned an analyzing eye to the room’s tallest occupant.

The elf was leaned up against the headboard of the bed and it appeared that Kili had been sprawled out over her legs even as he scrambled to right himself. The elf was clearly a woman, a warrior at that if her posture and returned observation was anything to go by. She wore light armor, obviously somewhat at ease even in the mountain, with her shockingly red hair drawn back by small braids to keep it out of her face when fighting.

Dis found that unlike most all elves she had met, this one had a more, down to earth, less… ethereal feel to her. She held herself in a way that betrayed both youth and strength; she was not yet so wrapped up in immortality like most of her race that she detached herself from the rest of the world, nor had she learned to hide her emotions behind the Elven Mask of Indifference(™), but she was strong and wise in the ways of others that the young were often not. She had been tested against the world and had proven she would not break.

Dis liked her already.

Of course, the next thing she noticed, despite her children’s fervent and frantic denials (said from safely across the room of course) was the courting bead, silver and stark against red locks.

Lovely, then her job wouldn’t be nearly as hard with this one as with her brother.

Fili and Kili froze as their mother turned to recognize their existence, faces pale and quickly forming identical masks of mild horror as they realized they would either have to walk by Dis to leave the room, or they would have to throw themselves out the window.

Both were sure anyone would understand self-defenestration in the face of Dis’ wrath. Well, maybe not Óin, but he was fairly used to such things from them anyway.

Their saving grace came when all Dis did was glance from them to the door in a clear indication that she wanted them to leave. Fili started moving first, scrambling out of the room like a cat scared by a cucumber and Kili followed after him, only stopping to shoot an apologetic glance at the elf. When the door was closed, only a tense silence remained as the two stared at eachother consideringly.

 

“Dis.” She introduced herself.

“Tauriel.”

 

Neither moved.

 

“You're courting my son.” It was said as a statement rather than a question and Tauriel nodded.

“Kili has asked for my courtship as his One and I accepted. He has my heart, and elves love just as deeply as dwarves do. I will love him and no other for the rest of my life.”

The challenge in her words was unmistakable and Tauriel raised her chin in defiance, clearly expecting Dis to share the prejudice of her people and make an argument for it.

Dis hummed thoughtfully. “Good. I would not have anyone break my Kili’s heart, especially not someone who he claims to be his One. At least I can count on my son to not make a mess out of his love life, with your help of course, all the men in my line seem quite incompetent when it comes to love.” She smirked. “It will be nice to have someone who can understand my struggle.”

“I- well… of course?” Tauriel spluttered, clearly wrong-footed by the easy acceptance. “You… are accepting of our courtship then?”

A nod. “It’s hard enough trying to manage three emotionally dense dwarrow, now that one of them is your problem I couldn’t be happier. I have only ever wanted happiness for my boys, and if you can give it to one then I welcome you, elf or otherwise.

“I do not share my brother’s prejudice, at least not to the degree I’m certain you are familiar with. I hold no concerns aside from what should be expected of a mother. I do, however, wish to make it clear that while I hold nothing against you for your race, I will remain cautious for love of my son until I find you are worthy of both my trust and Kili’s bead.”

“I would expect nothing less, my Lady.”

Tauriel got the distinct impression that she had just passed some sort of test when Dis gave a sharp nod and came to sit on the side of the bed. Her countenance relaxed, and she smiled deviously up at Tauriel.

“Now, you know my expectations of you in your courtship with my son, however outside of that I really rather like you. In fact I do think we could be fast friends. Tell me dear, just how did you manage to find yourself in Erebor without my brother throwing a fit?”

Oh, Tauriel liked her. Tauriel liked her a lot. A woman with a spine of steel and wit to match her own. If the brothers’ stories were anything to go by, they would get along famously, and they would need to if they were to keep the line of Durin in check. Tauriel smiled back cheekily, very interested in getting to know the (in)famous lady Dis.

“Well, it all started in the Greenwood…”


	9. Bilbo feels sorry for himself and Bofur wants to tear Thorin a new one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So art is a thing now; Feanor, everybody! (Psst, how do I work the Image link in the post chapter thingy?) Also thank you all so much for the comments, kudos (over 300!) and bookmarks (nearly 100!), I honestly never thought this story would become as popular as it has, but I'm certainly not complaining. Your encouragement has kept me interested, and hopefully it will lead to me finishing this fic sooner rather than later. In other news the upcoming week is hell week for pit orchestra, so you probably won't get another update until the week after, unless I decide to try and fit in another this weekend.

 

The first thought to come to mind was that this whole burglar gig was supposed to be a one-time thing. Key words; supposed to. And yet, here he was slinking through the shadows with his ring on like a wraith on a mission, trailing Bofur as he wove expertly through the sea of canvas.

The twilight world that came with wearing the ring only added to the effect of the metaphor, while also making him a bit uneasy. Well, uneasy, nauseous, curiously apathetic and feeling just a little bit like he was on the verge of what promised to be a very terrifying out-of-body experience. Despite the upside of numbing the pain in his side it was still terribly disconcerting. However, even all that wasn’t enough to deter a hobbit on a mission.

Bilbo had been minding his own business, arguing with himself about the merits of asking Feanor for some more medical supplies for his ‘friend’ (When Bilbo had caught his father arguing out loud with an empty room Bungo had only replied that such disagreements were perfectly fine so long as no one saw you speaking to the air like a loon. The irony of that statement was not lost on Bilbo, not even as a child) and trying to avoid the comparison of his new friend to the first one he made in the company, when who should appear in his line of sight but the very one he was trying _not_ to think about.

Bofur hadn’t seen him, obviously, but Bilbo had been so starved for the presence of his friends that it was a near thing when he had started creeping closer.

Bofur, blessed Bofur, was speaking with another dwarf in a curious series of guttural noises and tongue clicks that Bilbo passively recognized as Khuzdul. He had learned enough of it from observing his dwarrow on the quest to probably understand a good portion of their conversation. (Honestly, what part of _secret language_ gave the impression it would never be understood if you had no discretion about who it was spoken around? Not that they knew he was there now… but still.) However, he was far too distracted with drinking in every detail of his friend as if he was a starving hobbit at a buffet.

Bofur seemed well enough; a bit gaunt with a prominent scratch over his nose and a split lip – his hat had certainly seen better days, but he still wore it with pride- but otherwise he seemed happy and unhurt. Even his voice, which had deadened during the days of the gold sickness, was back to its usual cheerful canter.

Some part of this made Bilbo’s heart give a sharp twinge of disappointment that took him a bit to pinpoint. When he finally realized his disappointment was because Bofur was happy rather than upset at Bilbo being ‘missing’ he promptly shoved the emotion out the door and beat it with a broom.

He came back to himself just long enough to hear ‘Bifur’ and watch Bofur gesture to his head and then to an empty canister in his hand. The other dwarf nodded and pointed down between a row of tents, giving what Bilbo generously interpreted as directions. What he had actually heard was along the lines of telling someone his smial was ‘that one door under that one hill. Y’know, that one.’ Terribly helpful these dwarrow, especially when it came to directions.

Now that he thought about it, no wonder Thorin had gotten lost, it was entirely possibly that ‘that one door under a hill’ was all he had been given to work with. To be fair, he could just as easily have asked from directions from someone who actually knew the area, or gone down the _one road_ (of two) that didn’t lead to Bywater, so Bilbo didn’t feel that bad.

He hadn’t really had high hopes for even making it over the Misty Mountains when they first set out.

Realizing that Bofur was moving, and- he hoped- towards the healing tents, Bilbo quickly donned his ring and followed. If his hunch was correct, he was feeding two birds with one seed; medical supplies and getting to spend time with Bofur.

 

Even if Bofur didn’t actually know he was there.

And Bilbo was literally invisible.

Not stalking at all.

Nope, just spending time with a friend.

 

He was genuinely impressed, Bofur seemed to be navigating around people and tents with genuine ease, nothing compared to market day in Hobbiton, but impressive for a dwarf even so.

After nearly crashing into three barrels, an elf carrying a chamber pot, and Bofur himself, Bilbo finally got to catch his breath as his dwarf disappeared into what was now confirmed as a healing tent. He waited but a moment before going in himself, finding, much to his relief, Bofur as the only one there.

His friend rummaged around in one of the larger elven crates, muttering to himself about scars and idiot kings that slowly devolved into a surprisingly detailed tirade about what Bofur wanted to do to poor Thorin, including but not limited to multiple forms of strangling and king-napping.

Bilbo wasn’t quite able to tell just why Bofur was so upset, but it seemed to have something to do with Thorin avoiding bed rest and… denial? That didn’t make much sense, well the last bit didn’t. The whole bed rest bit was rather predictable, but it didn’t stop Bilbo from fretting.

Thorin had been injured badly enough to keep him sequestered away in the mountain and limited to bed rest, what if he hurt himself? It would be just like the stubborn idiot to think himself healed, despite the opinions of trained professionals, and try to get up to work and ending up killing himself by falling down a staircase or something. A very un-kingly way to die, Bilbo thought.

He almost didn’t notice Bofur’s cry of triumph as he held up a vial of… something and his subsequent exit, and he immediately felt a pang of mourning as the tail end of Bofur’s hat moved from sight.

Oh well. No use moping about, he had a job to do.

Bilbo pulled off his ring and tucked it safely away in his waistcoat pocket, patting the familiar shape a few times just to be sure. He then stripped off his shirt with a groan, anticipating the sharp sting that assailed him when he moved his arms above his head though unfortunately it didn’t hurt any less for it.

 

Huffing quietly in exertion, Bilbo privately thought himself rather pitiful.

Would a dwarf be so hindered by such an injury? Weren’t they supposed to be immune to sickness or something?

Thorin had needled him about his nature as a ‘ _weak halfling’_ so often during the quest his already limited self-confidence had taken a real hit, and even after their reconciliation on the Carrock Bilbo never truly believed Thorin when he said he was wrong.

He would probably have scoffed in derision could he see Bilbo now, or perhaps he would have laughed, seeing the hobbit as an amusement now that he was no longer his problem.

The thought made Bilbo’s chest constrict and his eyes sting, but he reminded himself that it really was his fault anyway. He hadn’t even managed the task he had been hired for properly and he had otherwise needed saving more times that he would ever admit out loud. Betrayal and disappointment, that was all he was likely to be remembered for. If he ever actually made it back to the Shire he would make sure to never tell a soul, and to avoid any of the dwarven traders that sometimes came by the Hobbiton markets or Bree, for surely he had learned that dwarves were nearly as terrible gossips as the Bracegirdles.

 

As he unwound the bandage and rummaged around for some healing salve, Bilbo reminisced about how he had naïvely hoped to make Erebor his home. He had come to regard the company as his family, and while that would never change, he had more or less extricated himself permanently with his ill-planed actions. He always acted before he thought; Gandalf was right, he really was a fool of a Took.

The wound on his side was seeping lightly; surrounded by yellowed, inflamed skin and spider-webbing veins- it didn’t look good at all. Nor did it feel good for that matter, making Bilbo clench his teeth on a sound that might have resembled a very quiet pigeon being hit with a cheese grater.

As he tried his best to gently massage the salve in, pus began to leak out- disturbed by his ministrations- and his side burned where the mixture came in contact with skin. Eventually it mellowed out into a pleasant (well, comparably) numbness, and Bilbo sighed in relief, feeling better than he had since he got the wound in truth.

He wrapped new bandages, being careful to not disturb the salve, and then filled a nearby bag with more of both the salve and bandages. He added some leaves he recognized as a sleep aid and donned his ring once more, slipping back out into the frigid air.

Bilbo spared a fleeting thought for Bofur, wishing that he could have had the courage to talk to him at least once more before he eventually had to leave, but that would have only ended in disaster.

As he made his way back to store his new treasures Bilbo tried to clear his mind and focus. The thought came unbidden, and was just the thing he needed at that moment.

_‘I wonder if Feanor has any food…’_


	10. The Society of the Durin Minders is now Complete! Even if they don't really know it yet.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is both short and not very interesting, but its something. Hell week is finally over as of last night so I am free at last! This is me making an attempt to keep with the one a week-ish update schedule I have going. Ehh.

Bilbo never did find out if Feanor had any food. He did, however, find out that quite a few children- of men and dwarves alike- did.

He had come upon them just inside the camp, in the clearing between the tents and Erebor, having nearly tripped over a chain of them running after eachother in a game of sorts.

A blur of dark leather and red hair, the children sped off with echoing peals of laughter; a delightfully happy sound brightening Bilbo’s day considerably.

 

One might have expected hobbits to be less enthused than say, elves or dwarves about children seeing as they have so many. It would be nearly an impossibility for one to walk even from their smial to the market on any given day without seeing at least five different fauntlings quite possibly all from one family, unless they were to get up far before the break of dawn. Even then it was a toss-up.

Hobbits, taking advantage of any and every opportunity they were given to have a celebration, took great joy in births, birthdays and rites of passage- treasuring their faunts more than they did elevenses; which to a hobbit was one of the highest compliments to be paid, and never without great pomp and seriousness.

It is to be expected then, that in contradiction with what might be initially implied to those who are unfamiliar with hobbits, they have an even larger soft spot for younglings than dwarrow-for whom children are a rare and special gift in their dying race.

 

This is what Lady Dis discovered that day at the foot of Erebor when she came to collect the young ones for food, only to find them all heavily engrossed in the words of a story-weaving stranger. Short in stature and large in feet, the stranger was as beardless as the day he was born and smiling joyously at his collected gaggle of children.

 

Bilbo hadn’t truly intended to follow the children, but he did end up following his nose and it led him to a young boy of the race of men trying to keep an apple out of reach of his friends.

The child looked surprisingly similar to Bain, if the boy had been but a few years younger. Bilbo heard the boy shouting for his friend to ‘catch!’, and he threw the apple in a wide arch over his head to the waiting hands of another boy several yards away.

Now, another thing that might not be expected of hobbits is their treatment of food. Living in such a rich and plentiful place as the Shire, hobbits are not ones to want for much of anything, especially food despite their large daily consumption of such. However simply because they do not want for it, does not mean they squander it. No, hobbits, holding all things regarding meals in very high standing, are meticulous as ever about food; if Bilbo’s dwarrow were aware of just how sacrilegious their blasé perusal of his pantry really was, they likely would have better understood his blustering and fretting.

To waste food is most un-hobbit like; even the most rebellious Took would gape at anyone foolish enough to _play_ with their food. Dear Bilbo, ever sensitive to such things after losing his parents to the Fell Winter and equally aware of the meager supplies present to aid those in the aftermath of, well… everything, found himself absolutely horrified that these children could even risk losing that apple for a few moments of play that could be accomplished with something far less precious.

Naturally, his hobbit sensibilities would not let such atrocities continue.

 

Reaching out from between the two of them he snatched the apple right out of the air as it sailed overhead, and had he not been too busy checking to see if the poor fruit was bruised he might have noticed the astounded faces of the children who had decided right then and there that this strange and agile not-child was going to be their best friend. Whether he wanted to be or not.

“Mister!” the first one cried, bringing Bilbo out of his introspection. “How’d ya do that?!”

Bilbo took marginal joy in not having to look up (too much anyway) to talk to them, however that quickly melted into exasperation. “I didn’t do anything, aside from keeping you from wasting food.”

Out came the Baggins trademark Scolding Voice. “I’m certain you know we have precious little of it as is, and no one needs you to take a tally off that by losing a perfectly good apple in the muck in your play when you could just as easily taken an actual toy or some other non-edible thing for the same purpose.

“I’m astounded your parents didn’t teach you better; no self-respecting faunt would ever risk such a thing. I say, if you were my young cousins I would have given both of you a good rap on the knuckles for that! Now, I’d rather bet that one of you did intend to actually _eat_ this apple, yes?”

He got two vigorous and wide-eyed nods in response, and both children stood up just a bit straighter, as one is want to do when being addressed for a punishment. Even Fili and Kili had done it on occasion when Thorin had it out for them after one of their pranks, usually to be followed two identical stoops and much whining when they had to go collect firewood in recompense.

 

“Yes mister, we’re sorry, we were jus’ playing.”

“Just playing or not,” Bilbo put the hand holding the apple on his hip, as the other came up to shake a finger at both younglings. “You very nearly wasted your food, and I would have no sympathy about denying you a replacement had you done so.”

They both looked very sheepish and the taller of the two scuffed the ground with his boot. Bilbo just sighed and continued.

“Now, I’m going to give this back and I want you to eat it, not waste it, you hear? I don’t want to see such disrespect from either of you again.”

He handed over the apple and watched one of them tuck it into a pocket on his tunic as the boy spoke.

“Y’know, you sound just like me mam.”

Wrong-footed by the statement, Bilbo just sputtered and turned a bit red, feeling quite betrayed as the other boy nodded along and chipped in his two cents.

“Mhm, mum always used to get on us ‘bout not playin’ with our food, said if we wanted to eat our toys we could go an’ get em from our room.”

‘ _Well.’_ Bilbo though. _‘I’m certainly not anyone’s mother thank you very much_.’ But before he could vocalize this they started walking and herding him away, talking all the while so he couldn’t get a single protest in edgewise.

“You’d like the Lady.”

“She’s just like ya, always makin’ sure we eat all our food an’ such.”

“About your height too I reckon.”

“Says we’re just like her kids.”

“Dwarflings, she calls em. Even though she says they’re all grown up.”

Whoever this lady was- a dwarrowdam apparently- Bilbo liked her already. Anyone who could corral children and respected the importance of a good meal was alright in his books.

 

And that was how Bilbo found himself lead away near the gates of Erebor where he was set upon by many more children, all of them claiming him as their own just at the first two had, much to his bemusement. Those two just sat back and split the apple between them, watching with amusement and raising their apple halves in a toast when Bilbo looked at them in askance.

Traitors the both of them.

 

It was much later when Bilbo had managed to settle down his gaggle, as they were now just as much his as he was theirs, and had begun to recite the tale of Old Tom Bombadil in the Old Forest, when the children started darting their eyes behind him.

Not thinking much of it, he continued weaving his tale until a bowl of stew was held in front of his face and he startled. Polite as ever, Bilbo grabbed the bowl and uttered a confused thanks before even turning around, but when he did, he nearly had a heart attack.

At first glance he thought Thorin had found him, but after taking in the slight smile and the distinctly feminine airs of the person behind him he realized this must be ‘The Lady’ the children had been referring to earlier. He was immediately intimidated.

“Lady Dis, at your service, mister…?”

Bilbo opened his mouth to answer when…

“Oh! Mister Not-A-Dwarf! I’ve been lookin’ all over for ya!”


	11. Bilbo has an Identity crisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I'm late on this, life is a thing. Also I keep starting things and never finishing them. Also writhing chapters that haven't happened yet. That too.

 

Feanor, as it turned out, did have food. A loaf of bread in fact. A loaf of bread that wasn’t stale. A true miracle.

 

Bilbo’s head swiveled between Feanor and Lady Dis, unsure of who to address first. He eventually decided on Feanor, as he was holding out half the loaf of bread and smiling rather pleasantly. Better to stick with the familiar, Bilbo thought.

Dipping the bread in his bowl of stew and nibbling on it, the hobbit raised a brow at Feanor, inviting him to talk and save him from awkward introductions. It didn’t quite work out.

“Mister Not-A-Dwarf?” Bilbo turned back to Dis with a wince.

“Well, you see-“

“It’s his name now.” Bilbo glared at Feanor. Traitors everywhere today, honestly.

“When he walked into camp a couple ‘o days ago the first thing I managed to say was that he wasn’t a Dwarf. He then told me I wasn’t an Elf, and, well it’s clearly true.

“So I decided ‘hey, that’s clever’, and now that’s his name. Master Not-A-Dwarf.”

“But-” Bilbo certainly wasn’t going to stand for such things, however laughter from both Lady Dis and the surrounding children interrupted him.

“Well, who am I to contradict such logic? It’s a pleasure to meet you Master Not-A-Dwarf. I would say you could call me Lady Dwarf as I am one, however I am inclined to think it would get confusing rather quickly.”

 

He was never going to live this down. It was just like the whole ‘Burglar’ shtick all over again. Bilbo feared that if he ever made it back to the Shire he wouldn’t even have a name any more, just an ever-growing list of monikers. _When_. _When_ he made it back, Bilbo chided himself.

He had already acquired ‘Mad Baggins’ from his bachelor status, though it was meant affectionately. Well, it probably wouldn’t be as affectionate now.

There was also ‘Burglar’, which had also begun to be said with an air of affection amongst the company, although once again he doubted it now. ‘Little Bunny’ was something he could have lived his whole life without, and would likely always be just a little bitter about. He wasn’t even going to think about Thranduil calling him ‘little one’.

At least ‘Not-A-Dwarf’ wasn’t inherently insulting, and was meant as a jest between friends. Bilbo just sighed and returned to ruefully eating his stew, shooting scathing glances at Feanor who was grinning unrepentantly.

“I see you have found yourself some companions Master Not-A-Dwarf. I’m really quite impressed; they don’t often sit still for just anyone.”

“Well you see, back home I’m considered rather odd for my love of tales and books-very tookish behavior- but it made me rather popular with the children. As I have none of my own I spent my time becoming the resident storyteller. Rather unintentional really, but once the young ones have their minds set…well.” Bilbo tapered off, unsure of how to continue. Was Dis their caretaker? Was he not supposed to be there? He had just wanted to entertain them- and himself with their company- but it was possible Dis took him to be a threat.

Bilbo’s fears proved to be unfounded when Dis laughed, and he needed to do a double take to focus when he thought of how nice Thorin would look when he laughed. “Indeed, they have taken to you quite well, I doubt they’ll leave you alone anytime soon. If nothing else you can help me keep them in line, Mahal knows I try, but that doesn’t make it any easier.” She paused and looked him over, causing Bilbo to fidget, remembering that first night Thorin called him a grocer.

He really needed to stop thinking about Thorin.

“It would also do you good to have a few more regular meals. You're far too thin.” Right. Him. A threat. Laughable really.

Here Feanor hummed in agreement and handed over another piece of bread. Just lovely. Bilbo had a feeling he would be mother-henned until the end of the world if those two worked together.

But… This bread _was_ terribly good. Perhaps a little henning wouldn’t go amiss.

 

 

Bilbo found the hours slipping by, engrossed in an entirely pleasant conversation about the merits of putting rosemary in bread. He hadn’t been this at ease in a long while- while his interactions with Feanor were always enjoyable, nothing truly compared to proper company and good food.

Even if in this case ‘company’ consisted of a ragtag group of children, an untrained ‘guard’ from Esgaroth, a bedraggled and injured hobbit and a Dwarrowdam named Dis and ‘good food’ was really only just ‘passing-as-food-and-could-possibly-be-cram-in-disguise-come-to-torment-Bilbo’. Except the bread. The bread was pretty good.

He groaned good-naturedly when Dis and Feanor bid him farewell as ‘Master Not-A-Dwarf’ and trekked back to his cubby feeling lighter than he had in a long time. He promised himself that he was going to visit and help Dis with the children tomorrow, just as much for his benefit as theirs.

As he lay down to sleep he pondered just how he would be able to manage Shire life when he got back. If by some miracle he did make it back (he was trying to be honest with himself, it wasn’t looking too likely) and wasn’t socially ostracized for his entirely unrespectable behavior –and nearly getting himself killed, can’t forget that bit- he knew he would never fit back into his life of Bachelorhood.

Until he had joined the company he hadn’t realized just how lonely he truly was. Sure, he had the memories left in his smial and his heirlooms, but they were just that; memories. They weren’t people he could talk to about rosemary in bread, could playfully joke with or pat on the back. Even all the way out here in the middle of blood and death he felt less alone than he had for every year that marked his parents passing in Bag-End.

He would give anything to keep that. Hobbits naturally were creatures of companionship, and Bilbo found he couldn’t deprive himself of that. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t slunk off already and given up on seeing the sun again.

He knew there were only two things that would truly keep him away, his own demise, or being forcefully dragged away. Even the scorn and hatred of his friends couldn’t deter him- he would respect the boundaries of his banishment, he was a hobbit of propriety after all, and he wasn’t that emotionally suicidal just yet. But he couldn’t leave. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

With a concerning strength of resolve Bilbo promised himself that whether he lived or died in the next few weeks he _would_ be buried on this mountainside, as a lifelong friend, betrayer or nameless corpse he didn’t care. But he knew he would do his best to watch over Erebor and his friends in this life and the next, whether they wanted him to or not.


	12. Nori gets a job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I exist. I realized that for plot to be a thing for the next few chapters I would have to write about fancy political stuff and write lot's of dialogue, which, if you can't tell, is not my favorite thing.  
> So instead I wrote chapters that haven't happened yet and procrastinated. But now there are things, and Nori has a job (who could have guessed). Anyway, there should be more stuff soon now that I've actually gotten around to writing it.

“I don’t want to see that thing ever again.”

“Thorin-“

“No.”

Thorin Oakenshield was glaring at his sister. Or rather, at the object his sister was holding. He seemed personally offended by the thing, and was looking at it as if it was liable to jump out of her hands and bite him.

While the object in question wasn’t actually very likely to bite him, Dis thought it was perfectly reasonable to take offence at the Arkenstone. After all, it was notorious for causing problems.

“We have to do _something_ with it.”

“Yes, _something_ that involves me never seeing it again.”

“Now cousin,” Dain chipped in. “I know you’ve some… strong feelings on the Arkenstone, and I can understand that, I really do, but Dis is right. If it wasn’t the centerpiece of Erebor’s royal family I’d be right with you in getting rid of it, but as it stands your subjects aren’t going to just accept it being ‘lost’ and never mentioned again.”

Dain sighed and brushed his fingers through his beard in contemplation. For all that Dis had taken him to task, it had been revealed that he had been (mostly) an innocent party regarding the shenanigans with both crown and council.

 

Dis was still pissed, certainly, he had been acting like an idiot- but she of all people understood the demands and headaches of imbecilic nobility sitting ‘round a table telling you what to do. Hearing that Dain’s advisors had poked and prodded and overall bullied him into ‘acting king’ was something that shouldn’t have surprised her. Hearing that his wife had threatened him in words almost identical to Dis’ own wasn’t a surprise either.

On a battlefield or left to his own devises, Dain was a deceptively formidable opponent. He had a tactician’s mind and a politician’s silver tongue, as did his wife. Together they portrayed the jovial, naïve, over-loud kind of nobles that council members were greedily looking to put in power as puppet figureheads and they were continuously underestimated for it, often using the freedom it garnered to their political advantage.

The thing was, that- yes, when together and overlooked they were probably on par with Dis- but when a council of nosey dwarven nobles decided to cajole and threaten the stability of the entire guildmasters association, effectively twisting the Lord’s arm, there was little he was able to do about it.

As such, on his advisors command, Dain had responded negatively to Thorin’s first plea for assistance, only accepting the second under the stipulations that he strengthen his own ‘suit for the crown’ as they put it, by taking charge when Thorin couldn’t.

He hadn’t wanted to, and had said as much. Dain made it clear that he didn’t want to be king- “Too much work!” he had cried. “At least as a Lord I can point the finger higher up when I need help or things go wrong.”

He didn’t want to be ‘acting king’ either; when Balin asked about regency he had replied, frowning, “Not a very exciting job, acting-king. You’ve got to act like you might king, but you can’t actually king because you’re not king.”

Needless to say Thorin rather agreed with him about both points at the moment.

 

Non-kings didn’t have to deal with Arkenstones that had made their lives a living hell.

 

Non-kings didn’t have to sign paperwork until they misspelled their own name because they could do literally _nothing else_ , until allowed out of bed.

 

Non-kings could get away with ‘having the emotional maturity of a particularly-witty turnip’, as his sister had said.

 

The last one was probably irrelevant, but the sentiment behind Dis’ words had been agreed with by everyone in the room at the time (excepting Thorin of course, he would deny such accusations till his dying day), and Thorin had winced when he realized the voice he had come to expect as the first to agree with such things was notoriously absent.

And why was Bilbo absent, but for the presence of the glowing thing Dis held cradled in her arms.

Thorin was already unnecessarily angered by her lack of blatant loathing of the object, and didn’t need her _cradling_ it as well. It brought back the rather unfortunate sense-recall of when he last held it- still under the thrall of the gold.

If she hadn’t been standing too far away Thorin would have been tempted to snatch the bloody thing out of her hand and launch it out the nearest window. He was tempted anyway, no matter how juvenile the thought.

“I will not have it anywhere near me or my throne ever again.” He petulantly crossed his arms and glared, challenging them to contest.

Dis smacked him. “Of course not.” She said. “I would have to throw you down several flights of stairs if you actually thought that was a good idea.

“No, it must go, but how, where and why all need to be decided.”

“We know whatever happens to it needs to be public.” Balin added.

“Too many people know of your fall to dragon sickness to keep it under wraps, and saying nothing only opens the floodgates for people to question your rule.”

Nodding along, Dis contemplated the stone. “It’s best we give the people a conclusive answer, lest they gossip and come up with their own.”

“You know what this means the first step is, right cousin?”

Dain had moved his chair forward and the scraping noise had quieted the room.

 

“Well?”

“What is the first step Dain? You tell me, as you seem to have all the answers.”

He sighed at the petulant expression on Thorin’s face. King he may now be, but not even the majestic sod could stop himself from acting like a dwarfling.

“You have to decide what you want to do about that burglar of yours.”

The silence continued as Thorin gaped at him. Actually, aside from Dis and Nori, the rest of the company in the room did as well.

“How did you-?”

“You’re not nearly as subtle as you like to think cousin.”

Fili and Kili snickered, thinking on how they had said that themselves not long ago.

“Also Dis told me.” Thorin turned an accusing eye on his sister.

“Brother dear, believe it or not I talk to other people besides you. Aside from your spymaster and Balin, the only one who has the two rocks in their skull to rub together worth my mental energy was Dain here.”

Ignoring the protests from his company, including a repeat of _‘hey, who’re you callin’ dim!?’_ Thorin left the insult alone to address his confusion. “My spymaster?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t have a spymaster.”

When she didn’t elaborate he sighed. Thorin had a hunch of where this was going, and if Dis had decided to make someone his spymaster then his spymaster they were- if Dis said so, that was that.

“You do now. Nori, do tell us, what _should_ my idiot brother do about his burglar?”

Mutters of “he’s not _mine_ ,” and “of course it’s Nori,” were ignored.

 

The thief was leaning against the wall twiddling a dagger, looking for all the world like he was contemplating what might be for dinner.

“Well for one, I think we’d all be pleased as punch if he’d get off his arse and finally get around to buggering the poor lad- I think I speak for all of us all when I say the sexual tension’s been getting a bit ridiculous.”

Thorin glared, Dis laughed and Balin muttered about tact, but was nodding along with the majority of the company.

“Then I should think he’d need to make clear to everyone that, y’know, Baggins isn’t actually banished. That’d be a start.”

Thorin winced, but said nothing.

“Where is master Baggins anyway?” Ori asked, timidly. “I wanted to ask if he was well enough to come with me to the library for a work break, but I couldn’t find him anywhere.”

The dead silence of the company made the dawning realization that no one had seen Bilbo since the battle that much more somber.

Dwalin looked to each guilty, horrified face and bellowed, “You mean the hobbit could be _dead_ , and no one bothered to check!?”

 

The guardsman had grown quite the soft spot for Bilbo; aside from the initial shock of having near five feet of muscle and weaponry descending upon his dinner, the hobbit had been most cordial to him. He was intimidated, certainly, but had accommodated the dwarf’s sweet tooth with an indulgent smile, had spoken with him as a friend- never acting as if Dwalin’s brawn had been all there was to him.

It was… refreshing. And surprisingly sweet. Dwalin had learned much about Bilbo and had found him to be witty- once having realized the dwarf wouldn’t be offended, he had dropped the driveling small talk Dwalin so hated with nary a thought- and was a genial conversation partner when the situation warranted, and good silent company when it didn’t.

It always helped that Dwalin could bemoan his best friend’s shortcomings with the hobbit and get an honest reaction not colored by loyalty or subservience. Bilbo didn’t care that Thorin was a king, he talked back when Thorin was being ridiculous and gave respect where it was earned.

To Dwalin it made him probably the most honest of the lot, and the fact that the hobbit had fallen for the dwarf king and had made Thorin fall in turn was just the icing on the cake.

He had jumped with all the others when they learned Bilbo was but fifty- _fifty!_ \- years old, scrambling about, yelling about bringing a child on the quest- no wonder he didn’t have a beard! Even after being assured that Bilbo was most definitely an adult (‘ _only just middle aged thank you!’_ ) the protective instinct never really went away. It seemed the same held true for the rest of the company- save Fili, Kili and Ori- as they all fidgeted in a way that betrayed their immense guilt.

 

Kili was the first to respond with a simple, but damning, “Oh.”

Had anyone bothered to look past their own guilt, they would have noticed the emotional agony flashing across Thorin’s face as he once again remembered Ravenhill.

The words he had said to himself again and again in the silence of his room in the dead of night finally slipped out, and none dared contest the fragile hope that came with the words they had all been thinking.

 

“Bilbo Baggins Is. Not. Dead.”

 

 

Only silence answered.

 


	13. Thranduil had emotions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I do exist, though finals are a thing. I also spent too much time rereading some earlier chapters and noticed some style discontinuities that I plan to fix. The plot won't change, but I may actually rewrite some chapters in their entirety, so I'll tell you if/when I do. Also I finally get to check this part off of my plot point list! Yay!

So the discussion went, hours of talking themselves in circles and tiptoeing around the very likely reality they all didn’t want to think about. As far as anyone was concerned- at least within Thorin’s range of hearing- Bilbo Baggins was very much alive. The most alive of all of them. Perfectly fine. Healthy as a horse. But not a horse because Bilbo was allergic to equines. Healthy as… something very healthy.

Unfortunately their assurances weren’t actually very reassuring, nor did they solve any of the problems they had convened to discuss.

Actually, only two of the things were actually decided on, and those were that come first light they would send out guards to go find their missing hobbit, and that they would all do their very best to make it clear to all inside (and outside) the mountain that he was to receive a hero’s welcome and all of this ‘banished’ nonsense was complete folly.

They didn’t decide on what was to be done with the Arkenstone, nor how long Dain was to stay. _‘Until you’ve gotten that fool arse of yours on the throne with a hobbity consort cousin!’_

They didn’t decide who, if any of them, should go looking for Bilbo themselves as it was equal parts likely that their presence would scare him off or make him more likely to approach. _‘If he hasn’t approached us before, it’s not likely the lad will now just ‘cause we’re suddenly lookin’ for him.’_

And did Thorin mention that they didn’t decide what to do with the Arkenstone?

His first idea had been to throw it down the first mineshaft he could find and then collapse the whole tunnel-head just in case.

Bofur reminded him that Erebor was not nearly stable enough- culturally or structurally- for any collapsing of any kind, no matter how well intentioned.

Dis reminded (read: hit him and said _‘just because you have not a speck of intelligence to your name does not mean master Baggins shares the same!_ ’) Thorin that throwing away the object you threw away your One for was more likely to be construed as devaluing him even further than taken as an admission of justice.

Thorin had said, “Certainly he knows I’m not smart enough to use my wit to hurt him like that…”

Then Balin, wise but blunt individual that he is, had reprimanded, “He certainly knows you’re not the brightest laddie, but given the early months of your anger and the death threat and banishment- the few weeks of sideways apologies and acceptance in between isn’t likely the version of you he’s going to see.”

For the millionth time that day, Thorin flinched.

 

How could he ever hope to reconcile with the hobbit? After the Carrock he had been hesitant because he’d had nothing to offer Bilbo but a worthless title to a lost kingdom, the clothes on his back and some prescription grade emotional issues.

Now, he had his kingdom, he had his gold and royal finery and he had his family to help him along, but they all meant nothing if he’d passed the point of no return. As far as Thorin was aware, usually threatening to throw someone to their death was a pretty big no-no.

However, whether he had the means to apologize (read: throw himself to his knees and beg Bilbo to, if not forgive him, then at least talk to him again) the point was entirely moot if he didn’t _have_ a hobbit to apologize to.

That was what irked Thorin most as he lay waiting for the sun to rise; he had so many things to do, so many things to say and repent for and all of them hinged on the presence of one little being who had- until this point- always been there when Thorin needed him. Now, when Bilbo finally needed Thorin- or at least most likely a healer or even just a warm bed- he couldn’t even manage to find him.

_‘Please Bilbo, be alright. If not for your own sake, then for mine. I… I need you.’_

 

 

Dis had learned many things in the last few hours. Some such things were simple reiteration; her brother was just as dim as she’d thought, Dain was actually a complete sap who’d probably kill for a romantic tragedy to be written about Thorin and Bilbo, the Arkenstone was one of the sole most irritating things she had ever laid eyes upon (and she’d watched Fili and Kili their entire lives), y’know. Things like that.

Some things, however, were new. For example; Dis now knew that Bilbo Baggins, dragon-riddler, Hero of Erebor, One to the King (idiot)-Under-the-Mountain, was in fact, a hobbit.

In and of itself this was of little note despite the oddity, but certain puzzle pieces were starting to make much more sense with this information.

It also brought to light her earlier suspicions of ‘Master Not-A-Dwarf’ who, most notably, was not a dwarf.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t a hobbit.

And if he was Bilbo Baggins, it answered not only the question of what he was, but why he was there. Dis had been terribly curious as to what a being smaller even than a dwarf with seemingly no relation to Erebor, the men or even the elves was even doing at the foot of the mountain- especially after such carnage.

Had she not seen the evidence of his prolonged presence there she might have thought he arrived after the fact, but no one that malnourished and bruised would have shown up afterwards ‘just because’.

Dis had considered bringing it up when ‘The Group’ as they had been dubbed, were all in the same room, but the princess had always been one to check her facts, and she wasn’t about to raise all their hopes on a suspicion.

Even still, she had much to think on.

 

And think she did, the remainder of the day. And the next. She had intended to corner the hobbit when she brought the children to lunch, but a ‘surprise’ meeting with Thranduil that morning postponed her plans until it was too late.

 

 

The Elven king had deigned it his purview to drop in on the Erborian royal family whenever he pleased, and while Dis would normally have left to let her brother suffer the company of elves alone, the first words to escape Thranduil caught her interest.

“Your Hobbit reminds me of her you know.”

Now, the immediate question demanded by Thorin and thought by Dis- namely ‘who ‘ _her_ ’ was- and that voiced only by Thorin- ‘How many times must I say it, he’s not MY hobbit!’ (the latter being summarily ignored) was not answered immediately. Instead the Elven king did something that caused both dwarrow to blink in confusion. He sat down, _slouched_ , and stared.

In truth not even the slouching was terribly unusual, but what had caused their shock was the open sadness swimming in the elf’s eyes as he observed Thorin.

Many emotions had been conveyed in the Dwarf king’s direction by those eyes before; disdain, disgust, dismissal, a lot of other things that might start with the letter D, but never sadness.

But there was no mistaking the glaze that took over as anything else. It was a sadness borne of deep pain, love, and regret. All things with which Thorin was intimately familiar.

“You remember the jewels of which I asked.”

Though it was said as a statement and not a question, Thorin nodded.

“Do you even know why they are in your mountain?”

 

“My grandfather said he was refused payment for them.”

At that, a very familiar disgust took over Thranduil’s expression. Dis couldn’t blame him entirely, most of her memories of her grandfather were… unpleasant. She had not been old enough to remember him before the gold sickness, not like Thorin had.

“No, he was refused an unfair and contractually illegal _tax_ that he only chose to impart after the piece was finished. He was blinded by his greed and the light of the gems and broke our agreement to keep them for himself.” Thranduil spat.

“They were a gift. The gems themselves were rumored to belong to a shattered Silmaril, in truth I should have expected such actions from Thror- the sickness had taken hold long before. Those things have wrought naught but greed and paranoia, and yet…”

Dis watched the elf trail off before shaking himself back to the conversation. Thorin’s grumbling about Thror was again ignored.

“They were a gift.” He repeated.

“For my wife. While elves do not have a ‘One’ as your kind do, we also love but once, and many who lose such a love are doomed to fade or sail west. She was my heart and soul, and I had believed that none other but the light of the Silmarils, the Gems of Lasgalen, could compare to her.

“In this I ceded that the craftsmanship of the dwarves had no equal, and thus turned to the King under the Mountain and his best jewelers and smiths to create a piece worthy of my dear wife. When Thror withheld them from me, the betrayal was as personal as it was political.

“I did not have time to argue their return, as not a year later my wife had been taken prisoner by the Orcs of Gundabad and killed. At the time my grief was so great I could hardly bear to look at my son Legolas, as he is her spitting image. Many years the Gems seemed to me my only connection to her, as lost to me as she, locked up under dwarven stone and later under the claws of a drake.

“I believe you of all people,” Thranduil turned to lock eyes with the King under the Mountain. “Would understand having what is left of your home, your heart, kept as a jewel and held hostage in this mountain would you not?”

The truth of Thranduil’s words stung Thorin greatly Dis could see, and only the shock of Bard speaking his piece (when did he even get in here?) broke the tension, though Thranduil seemed to have known he was there.

“That is a sad tale indeed your Majesty, and my condolences. I too know the loss of one’s heart, though perhaps not as keenly as an elf or dwarf.”

“No loss of those we love is more or less potent for the race of those loved or lost. Love is a gift treasured, and unique to all who hold it for its sting is felt just as deeply for those that come to know it.” Dis countered.

Princess Dis had seen too much sorrow during their days of wandering, be it her own or that of others. The one thing she would ever claim to have learned is that love and pain alike hold no indemnity for any being.

Thorin, as uncomfortable with anything resembling an emotion as Ori with green and leafy things, and twice as skilled at trying to eat his boot, found that now was a good time to do so.

“As terribly romantic as this all is, I fail to see the point- what does this have to do with Bil- Master Baggins?”

_‘Oh Thorin you hopeless fool…’_

“The point, Thorin Oakenshield, is that- loathe as I am to admit it- you and I are alike, just as your Burglar and my wife are.

“It took Mithrandir to remind me that my wife left me with not only Gems as a faded memory, but a flesh-and-blood son whose life I had foolishly risked in coming to the mountain to take the Gems of Lasgalen from you.

“You yourself have put the value of a jewel above that of your own heart, your heart that I now hear is currently missing or dead. While I may have lost mine, I still have her memory alive in the one I hold most dear. But I ask you, what do you have? Will you still hold your Arkenstone above his life when he is found? Be he dead or alive?

“I hold no love for that jewel, and for all my years wish never to lay eye nor hand upon it again, it is yours,” Here he looked to Bard who nodded in agreement. “I would only ask, in respect of past and future alliance, that you consider just what is important to you. I would have laid the gems with my beloved in life or death though now I can do neither. Pray, what will you do, while you still can?”

With those parting words the Elven king rose to his considerable height and swept out of the room in a flurry of silken robes, leaving Bard, Dis and Thorin gaping in his wake.

 

Suffice it to say she didn’t make it to get the children for lunch.


	14. Bilbo makes a(nother) friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So if any of you were wondering, there is a reason Bilbo is acting all sorry for himself, though I think when I get there it will make sense enough that it won't need explaining.

 

Bilbo awoke with a muffled scream followed with a groan.

The feeling of Thorin’s hands around his neck was fading in his first waking minutes, though the bruises remained despite his best efforts to either erase them with some elvish concoction or forget them entirely.

He had woken similarly the past few days, with a scream working its way up his throat and a sharp stab of pain around his wound when he inevitably sat bolt upright. It upset Bilbo greatly that he couldn’t simply push the memories to the back of his mind at night as he did during the day- blood, shadow and words of hatred haunted his mind in the dark of night.

There was only so much a hobbit could take and Bilbo was sure he was reaching his limit if he hadn’t already passed it. He could groan and grumble all he wanted, throw himself as many pity-parties as he could but it couldn’t change the facts.

Every time he thought of Thorin a fresh wave of sorrow and shame washed over him- so great had been his devotion, his need to _just help_ , that he had been blinded to the consequences. And wasn’t that just the best part- he had hoped so much, assured himself it would be fine in the end so many times he had actually been surprised when Thorin branded him a traitor, when Thorin meant to throw him to his death.

Bilbo had known of course, deep down, what was going to happen; you don’t just withhold the greatest treasure of a kingdom from its king and expect everything to be alright. He knew Thorin would be mad, livid even. He knew he would break every chance of ever reconciling by stepping forward and claiming responsibility. But- _damn the Baggins in him_ \- he felt _guilty_ of all things when Thorin raved at Bard about the stone, and somehow thought admittance was the best way to go.

And here he was- near five days later- heartbroken and dying. But of all else he was most certain that he would do it all again if he had to. He would suffer the look of betrayal in Thorin’s eyes a thousand times, fling himself in front of as many orcs as necessary if only it meant that Thorin _lived_. He would protect his dwarrow with everything he had and at any cost to himself because he was a Took and a Baggins both, and to them, family is everything. To him, family is everything.

 

And his family was _alive_ , blessedly _alive_ and just busy being _alive_ in their mountain home. He’d done his job, he’d protected them, got them all through it in one piece, and even better, helped them win their home back. Well, really _they_ did that and he just followed them around and watched, but- semantics. And all he really wanted to do was just lay back down and not get up again.

Well now. That just wouldn’t do.

Bilbo thought to himself, ‘ _you’re a Baggins, and a Baggins doesn’t just sit on his rump all day feeling sorry for himself. Not when there’s work to be done._ ’

And from this hobbit’s perspective, there was much work to be done.

 

Just as he had promised himself, Bilbo wandered down to the camp to look for the children- though he need not have looked- for he found himself immediately accosted by younglings of men and dwarves alike.

Cries of “Mister Not-a-Dwarf!” and, “Hey, it’s that apple guy!” greeted him and he was immediately cheered by their happiness. There was life and a future to be had in Dale and the Lonely Mountain, a life and a future in these children and it nearly made him weep for joy.

Bilbo was ushered to sit with them in a large circle where bread and broth were passed around, and the hobbit found himself soothed by the familiarity of chatter at mealtimes.

He found himself introduced (properly this time) to a rather chatty, if flighty, dwarfling by the name of Dwila who was just growing into her beard. Poor Bilbo could barely get a word in edgewise after their initial greeting, but found he really didn’t mind all that much. Dwila was a kind soul and was teaching him much about her race that he hadn’t been able to discover with the general tight-lippedness of the adult population, or perhaps simply because it never occurred to them to tell him.

 

“My da said the whole of e’bor is covered in gold, did you see inside Mister Bilbo? I hope we get to see inside soon, I bet it’s pretty. My ma told me only parts of it were gold, though- da just huffed at her. He does that a lot, see, says ma was ru’nin his dreams- which don’t make much sense as he also says she’s his dream, but adults don’t make much sense anyways. Do you make sense mister Bilbo? I think you do.”

“Why thank you, Dwila-”

“Da also said the King finally got his fancy jewel back- glows it does. Da said so. It was a family heirloom, said it was all the king had left of his da, and his da before that. If I only had a rock left of my da I’d be pretty sad too. I saw him once y’know- the king. He was so sad Mister Bilbo, do you think he’s less sad now that he had his stone back? I hope so. Kings shouldn’t be sad. I asked ma once on the way here why he’d been so sad- said it was cause only thirteen wanted to go with him, said he couldn’t get any of the other dwarf kings- no, wait, ma said they were lords- to send him help to fight the dragon without his stone so he had to do it with just thirteen.”

Bilbo’s heart stung at that, he’d known- in a very vague sense that the Arkenstone was a sign of Thorin’s right to rule, but it had never been elaborated on. He hadn’t known that it was why he was refused aid in reclaiming the mountain. The rush to find it made much more sense in this light. And he’d given it away to Thorin’s worst enemy when he’d only just gotten the kingdom back.

“Thirteen is a lot- once I was with da at a meeting, for his guild I think, he said there were only about ten people there, but it seemed like a lot. Ma said you’d need more than thirteen to fight a dragon. But they did it! Or, well that one man did I suppose, but they still did it! I heard dragons are really big, do you know how big dragons are? My cousin said once that dragons were this big,” Here Dwila threw her arms apart as far as they could go to show how ‘big’ this imaginary dragon was, and nearly fell backwards, save Bilbo catching her.

“Are dragons really that big Mister Bilbo?”

“Indeed they are my dear, in fact they’re much, much bigger. I’ve not heard tell of a story that could accurately say how big a dragon was, Smaug was so large, why, you’d not even be able to stand at the height of his eye!”

“Wow!! Did you seen him Mister Bilbo?! Could he really breathe fire?! And fly!?”

Bilbo realized his mistake too late, but he figured that it was unlikely anything would come of a child knowing, she already knew his name. ‘ _Hang for a lamb, hang for a sheep then._ ’ He thought.

“Why yes, Dwila, I did. And he could do all those things, wings that could block out the sun he had, and fire hotter than any forge. His scales were as red as any ruby I’ve seen, and there are quite a few in the treasury.”

“Wow…”

“And a bit of advice my dear, should you ever come across one- though I should certainly hope you never do- never, I say never, laugh at a live dragon. Very bad for one’s health.”

The poor dwarfling was staring at him like he was Mahal incarnate and seemed struck speechless that this ‘Mister Bilbo’ had seen Smaug. It was a bit unnerving actually, and he began to fidget after a moment of silence during which Dwila didn’t blink once.

“You’re so cool.”

“Erm, well. Thank you I suppose. Now, what do you say about a game of conkers?”


	15. Feanor's a pretty great guy right? (HAHAHA)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo has an emotional crisis and Feanor has some surprisingly good advice.

 

It seemed Shire games were just as popular among children on this side of the Misty Mountains as they were with the faunts of the Shire itself, and soon Bilbo found himself shouting encouragements as the children led their own tournaments.

He himself had participated only long enough to teach them the rules as his head started to buzz and if he stood for too long he grew winded and dizzy. As such, Feanor found him seated outside a ring of enthusiastic conker players who were so thoroughly ensconced in their game they didn’t notice him slip away with his friend.

 

They wandered and ended up making themselves useful rolling bandages in one of the unused healing tents. It was a few minutes into an amiable silence that Bilbo’s world was tilted on its axis once again.

“I’ve a question for ya Master Not-a-Dwarf.”

“Oh? Well, I hope it’s something I know the answer to. Ask away then.”

Feanor took a moment, opening his mouth several times, as if he couldn’t figure out how to phrase whatever it was he wanted to say without gravely offending someone. Eventually he gave a frustrated growl and just came out with it.

“Are you a hobbit? Specifically the one the guards are all looking for? The one apparently named Bilbo. Bilbo Baggins.”

Bilbo froze like one of the squirrels Kili was so fond of finding on the end of his arrows.

“It’s just- I wanted to ask. I know you might have your reasons, but I’ve not met anyone yet who introduced themselves as ‘just Bilbo’ or ‘just _anybody_ ’ who wasn’t looking to stay unnoticed.”

“You- did you say anything?”

“To the people looking for ya? No. I felt…. If you did have a reason, I should ask you first. You’re my friend, and a good person to boot, and I’d not forgive myself if you got hurt because I gave you up for something I knew nothin’ about.”

Bilbo heaved a sigh of relief. Feanor really was a kind soul and a truly good friend. Even better, he didn’t automatically assume the worst of Bilbo just because he was a wanted criminal.

Oh. Yeah. Wanted criminal. Shit.

He should... uh, probably say something.

“About that…”

Now it was Bilbo’s turn to have his mouth swinging open and shut like a screen door with a bad latch.

“You see… well. I um. Oh dear.” He sighed.

“What _do_ you know about the dwarrow that took Erebor?”

“Dwarrow is the plural of dwarf.” He elaborated at Feanor’s blank stare.

“Oh! Well, not all that much really. Mostly just what’s Bard’s said about it- dwarf king with thirteen companions, a thief and a wizard lookin to oust the dragon and get back their ancestral home- or something like that.”

“Well, I suppose that _is_ accurate. Not very nuanced, but it’ll do. I suppose the first most important thing for you to know is that their thief- contracted burglar technically- well, not so much of a burglar and more of an unwitting sneak, or, well really a rather respectable- ahem. Sorry.”

Bilbo flapped his hands rather uselessly and avoided eye-contact.

“Their thief was a hobbit. Is a hobbit. Me. I’m a hobbit. That one to be precise.”

“Yes, Master Not-a-Dwarf, I’d rather guessed that on my own.” Feanor was laughing at this point, as a flustered Bilbo was an undeniably adorable sight. The company, and Thorin especially once they had gotten to know eachother, had pointed this out on multiple occasions involving unfortunate amounts of hair-ruffling and cheek-pinching.

Bilbo had claimed he would fight them- namely the next person to do either of those things- and they all laughed uproariously when that ‘next person’ was Thorin and Bilbo was blushing to his ankles.

Not one of his finer moments, he’d admit, but still.

“Well.” Bilbo huffed. “Yes well. He- _I_ became rather good friends with them on the way here, some… more than others. Anyway, the king- Thorin’s his name by the way- he- the closer we got to the mountain the more… distant he became.

At this point Bilbo had accumulate four rolled bandages and was working on another.

“You should know, the reason Erebor fell in the first place was because Thorin’s grandfather was sick. Sick in the mind- dragon sickness I’ve heard it called. It overrules the senses and priorities of the one afflicted until they see naught but their gold, and they end up terribly paranoid about it- to the point of… of putting gold over the lives of their comrades. Their kin.”

Five.

“Please don’t think it was Thorin’s fault- you can’t blame an ill person for sneezing after all- he really did have the best intentions at heart when seeking Erebor. However, when the dragon sickness took hold not even the threat of an army of elves was enough to make him part with one coin.”

Six.

“They also have this stone you see, the Arkenstone- Thorin’s grandfather found it and proclaimed it the heart of the mountain- his divine right to rule. That was the reason I was hired. They needed someone to sneak in past the dragon and get the stone. Well, they just told me to take _something_ , but with all the hinting about it you’d think it was the only actual thing in the treasury.”

Seven.

“I didn’t know until earlier today that the stone was the reason there were only fourteen of us, none of the other dwarf kingdoms would help if Thorin did not wield the stone- although how you _wield_ a _stone_ I’ll never know. The thing is I did find it. I took it and stuck it in my pocket just before I was stupid enough to laugh at a dragon.”

Eight.

“Thorin had come rushing into the treasury after me, Smaug was unsurprisingly loud. I was running and telling Thorin to run- the idiot had his sword drawn, as if something like that could fend off a fire drake- but…”

Eight and a half, and Bilbo’s hands paused in their work as he got lost in memories he would really rather forget.

“Well. It had already started. The sickness. I thought he was concerned for me, the company. Hell, I thought he might be a bit more concerned with the bloody rampaging dragon than the gold. But I was wrong. When he asked about the Arkenstone before anything and I was a bit too concerned about not being singed to answer he… he turned his sword on me.”

Still eight and a half, and a larger, more calloused hand came up to cover his own in a show of assurance. Bilbo smiled thinly even though he could still not lift his gaze.

“I think he would have done it to. Run me through, pushed me off the stairs what have you, if everyone else hadn’t shown up. I should have said something then- maybe this would have turned out better…. but I didn’t. We were running, then we were mourning Laketown, then we were celebrating and suddenly it was a whirlwind of _‘find the stone!_ ’ and I couldn’t bear thinking about what it might do to him.”

The hands covering his squeezed.

“Even Smaug had told me- said it would drive him mad. Even Thorin’s own advisor told me it would- I think he knew I had it. I’m just a hobbit, the larger plays of politics escape me you see, and if there was a better way to get Thorin to know sense then I did not see it. I gave the stone to Bard and Thranduil, hoping they could use it to get the men the gold we really did owe them. I made the mistake of being an ‘ _honorable_ ’ person and took responsibility.”

The pile of rolled linens was no more as Bilbo turned to bury his face in the comfort of his friend’s embrace and knocked them over. More memories he _really_ didn’t want to remember. Ever.

“ _He tried to kill me_.” Bilbo whispered. It really came out as more of a sob, and was, for a moment, the only sound in a grayscale world so like that of the ring it gave him shivers.

It was something Bilbo hadn’t been able to admit even to himself in the depths of night when his thoughts were darkest, and now that the words were spoken they seemed damning beyond any magic or mortal wounds the hobbit had witnessed.

That was the crux of it wasn’t it? Not that Bilbo had done anything so terribly unforgivable and was paying for it with his life- though he did and was- not that Thorin nearly lost his life and his kingdom because of it and Bilbo felt so immensely guilty- also true- but it was that he _couldn’t_ fix it.

Thorin tried to kill him. Thorin banished him on threat of death and left hand shaped reminders of his words around Bilbo’s neck. Bilbo felt bad, but he would do it a thousand times over of it meant Thorin lived. Bilbo wanted to _fix_ it. But he couldn’t.

Even if he miraculously didn’t die soon, even if Thorin was magnanimous enough to listen to Bilbo’s pleas, even if somehow he was forgiven for doing what he had hated Thorin doing in the beginning of their quest- taking away his choices- even if all his hopes and dreams (not dreams, Bilbo was sure he never wanted to sleep again) of reconciliation were realized… Thorin had tried to kill him.

Would have too, if not for Gandalf.

The question wasn’t if Thorin would forgive him, but if he could forgive Thorin.

That’s what he had been too afraid to think about- he loved the idiot bastard with his heart and soul, always would, but with this between them how could he ever meet the king’s eye?

How could he let someone into his bed, into his heart, if he couldn’t imagine sleeping around them without one eye always open?

But that was unfair, Bilbo thought. Betrayal and sickness do not the person make. It wasn’t his fault.

It wasn’t _really_ his fault.

It was Bilbo’s fault for forcing their hand- taking away their choices when he didn’t even understand the significance of his actions.

 _“But sickness- especially that of the mind- can’t make something out of nothing. Somewhere deep down he meant to kill you.”_ A voice whispered in his head. It had been happening more and more often lately, ever since Mirkwood, and if Bilbo was a braver hobbit- or rather one who cared about himself a bit more- he might have told someone about it.

As it was, he only sobbed into the part of Feanor’s neck he could reach as his friend murmured nonsensical assurances to him.

 

Not very many bandages ended up wrapped by the time Feanor had to leave- with a promise to not say a word of course- but Bilbo was given many things to think about, and many more reasons Feanor was quickly approaching Bofur in best friend levels.

The guard had held him with seemingly eternal patience and then spoken with equally eternal wisdom when Bilbo was in some state to listen.

He had somehow understood Bilbo’s mad babbling that had apparently happened when he wasn’t aware of it, and calmly and logically gave Bilbo two options. One, he could continue to ignore his friends in an attempt to protect them, moreover to protect himself- or two, he could love them as unconditionally as he once did; with honesty and the hope of a good outcome.

As Feanor had put it ‘love them as the one who betrayed them, or love them as the hobbit who found his family.’

Terribly simple and yet not so at the same time.

Somehow he had also tuned into Bilbo’s feelings for Thorin, and gave a bit more specific advice.

He’d reminded the hobbit that love does not equate to forgiveness. It doesn’t even equate to trust, though the two are not mutually exclusive. Bilbo had to find his balance between them or else he would be rebuilding the basis of their relationship on nothing more than old, broken stilts. (Again, the irony was not lost.)

His friend had bid him goodnight with a salute and a promise to tell Bilbo all about the time he'd fallen in love with a girl and accidentally proposed to her twin when he was a child, and how she'd shoved him in the lake. Bilbo couldn't wait, but somehow the levity was muted by Feanor's earlier words.

The hobbit sat in that tent late in to the night, rolling bandages that had been discarded, forgotten on the ground as he mulled over his thoughts.

He knew that he would refuse to accept Feanor’s first option. He would not take the choices of his friends- of Thorin- from them in some twisted version of love and protection. Not again. They were all capable of fighting their own orcs, they didn’t need a hobbit to do it for them.

Hiding and taking their choice of friendship from them? Even if it was broken beyond repair by his actions? He wouldn’t do that. But could he expose himself like that? Figuratively and literally, he wasn’t sure he could deal with it. Besides he was still banished, they’d have to come to him. Not that they weren’t looking. Not that they just might be looking for him to attend his own execution.

Not that he wouldn’t die anyway, so why was he really worrying about all this again?

Fifty-seven. He decided to sleep on it.

 

Bilbo never did come up with an answer (or sleep), as what he saw lurking near the western slopes of the mountain made him stop in his tracks. He was glad he had taken Sting with him earlier, because he wouldn’t have gotten back to his nook right then.

The blue glow of the blade lit up the hobbit’s face as he drew it and shouted at the top of his small lungs, “ORCS!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey a cliffhanger, that should be fun. I'm.... not really that sorry.


	16. Orcs are boring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't write fight scenes. It doesn't go well. Really, it doesn't. Also, things will begin to actually progress after this!

 

“Thorin, Óin’s going to put you back on bed-rest if you keep this up, probably by tying you to the bloody thing.”

Thorin didn’t respond, choosing instead to continue reviewing the guard reports. He had ordered that any and all reports possibly regarding his hobbit be brought directly to him so he could determine just how accurate they were.

He needed to know, and Dis keeping him from straining himself in bed was not going to help him in that endeavor.

The reports so far had both buoyed his spirits and caused them to sink- it was appearing more and more likely that Bilbo hadn’t gone home and that he was wandering around the camp just avoiding them. This was good, as it meant that he was alive. This was bad, in that he was avoiding Thorin.

More importantly it seemed that he was injured- he tended to be seen around a specific human guard, and when mentioned it seemed he was ‘very weak or limping’… and he hadn’t gone home. At this point probably because he couldn’t.

It had Thorin very worried and that much more desperate to find him before something changed for the worse.

Of course, short of going out to look for himself- he would have a line of people waiting to kill him if he tried and didn’t manage to get himself killed in the attempt- Thorin could do very little in way of helping and it was driving him up a wall.

Suddenly the report in his hand disappeared, and he was left staring at empty space with a glower, as if that particular spot of air was solely responsible for the state of his hobbit. Dis then whacked him over the head with the papers and pushed him back into the furs.

“Honestly brother, if Óin doesn’t tie you down then I will and I’ll leave you there for your hobbit to find and do with what he pleases when he shows up.”

At this point Thorin thought he would suffer any indignity if it just got Bilbo back to him.

 

 

 

The funny thing about orcs, Fili thought, was that nothing was ever new. You fight them once, you’ve fought them a hundred times- nothing ever changed, stab here, there’s probably a goblin behind you, do they have a cave troll? Of course they do. It was always the same.

In the end orcs were just…boring.

Sometimes though, Boring could get the jump on you. Boring often became so complacent that you forgot about it, and you forgot that orcs will attack simply because they can, even when they’ll lose.

That night Boring almost got the jump on them. Almost being the key word- someone had apparently seen them and shouted a warning, foiling any element of surprise the orcs had and confusing them as they tried to figure out what gave them away.

Fili was very glad of this person.

Still… that didn’t mean orcs weren’t boring.

Even though these ones had archers and Kili made comments about their lack of skill, that didn’t make them any less so.

The two of them had been eating dinner in the camp with Sigrid, Tilda, Bain and Tauriel when the shout reached them- or rather _Kili_ was eating dinner with them and Fili was dragged from his lovely warm bed to keep his little brother from eating his foot instead of food when trying to converse with the elf.

Most underrated wingman of the century.

Of course if anyone asked, Kili just wanted to stretch his injured leg and Fili was making sure he didn’t fall down the mountainside. The fact that they _happened_ to run into Tauriel and _happened_ to find food agreeable, and ‘ _wow look, my leg is tired, maybe we could stay here for a while, and would you mind too terribly keeping us company?’_ \- meant little when Kili couldn’t manage ‘subtle’ for the world and was making doe eyes that even the cutest of dwarflings would be envious of at Tauriel.

Uncle would not be pleased.

Amad on the other hand…. Well, Fili couldn’t really say. He doubted she would be angry, seeing as whenever she was you _would_ know. She had already seen the two of them together and no one had been murdered, so that looked to be a good sign, but whatever happened in that room after they left no one was telling, not even Tauriel herself.

Kili had never been good with suspense, or rather, he was like Thorin in that people knowing things he didn’t bothered him to no end. As such he was wound up tighter than a watch spring and practically vibrated with undisguised curiosity anytime their amad was in a room where Tauriel was mentioned.

Fili had learned long ago that while Thorin might have been the more brawny figurehead of their family, their amad was the one who really ran the show.

Anyone who really interacted with her knew that she could talk you in circles until you eventually ended up agreeing with everything she said despite having originally been there to argue, and you leave the whole encounter feeling vaguely nauseous and very confused- much in the same manner of waking up from a nap and feeling as if you just surfaced from a body of water you didn’t know you were submerged in.

The short of it was that- if you wanted anything political (or personal for that matter) done without starting a war- Dis was the person to go to. Only if she agreed with you of course.

She was a master of keeping secrets and playing people like fiddles and her main source of entertainment was her family.

Mahal help them if she found someone she could match wits with.

Fili thought for a moment.

Mahal help them if she ever met Bilbo Baggins.

 

The company hadn’t discovered until a conversation at Beorn’s that their small, mild mannered, kindly, adorable burglar was actually as bloodthirsty a politician as Dis often was.

“I don’t understand you dwarves.” He had said. “How is it that you can be such loving and familial people and at the same time have conversations about cutting off people’s tongues at a meal? Such violence, and for what purpose?!”

They had, in fact, been talking about how many tongues/heads Dwalin had removed in his time as captain of the guard earlier that day when they had paused for lunch.

“It’s justice, don’t you see Bilbo?” Bofur- of course it would be him, Bilbo thought- exclaimed. “You’ve got all these criminals, people spreading lies, rumors, treachery against the crown and all, and- well- you know how hard-headed us dwarrow are- they’re not going to listen to anything else.”

“It’s just so… singular.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if they’ve already been spreading rumors and whatnot, the damage is done, there are others who probably believe them. You’ve only dealt with one person, and depending on what they got others to believe, killing them- publicly especially- might only make the problem worse.” He took a sip from his teacup. (Why Beorn had hobbit sized teacups no one really wanted to ask.)

“Why, hobbits are quite good at dealing with gossips. We start it often enough you know.

“If you had someone you wanted to ‘get rid of’ in a fashion, all you’d have to do is drop the right stories in the right ears and watch as they’re socially and emotionally obliterated and any respectability or public acceptance is permanently crippled.” He shrugged.

“No one trusts a word they say ever again and they’re socially ostracized to the point that, often enough if you needed them really gone, you know… they… do the work themselves.”

As Bilbo sat there drinking his tea, his dwarrow were contemplating the irony of the whole situation.

Fili shuddered to think of his amad meeting Bilbo.

He shuddered again when he heard Tilda scream. Orcs, right.

He turned on his heel, poised to help, but it seemed he needn’t have bothered, having an elf and a dwarf- even an injured one- with bows was a very good line of defense.

Kili was standing with his bad leg braced against the log Bard’s children were sitting on guarding one side, and Tauriel was circling around- switching between her arrows and knives depending on how close any orcs got to the group.

Fili had his sword out and despite only being able to use one, was defending the other side of the log. It wasn’t even a challenge.

Again, orcs were boring. It could always bear repeating.

 

Throughout the whole kerfuffle the only interesting thing Fili saw was an arrow that seemed to disappear midair. He wasn’t sure if it was one of Kili’s or an orcs, but neither had arrows that were known for pulling disappearing acts.

He hadn’t had much time to dwell on it while the fight was going on, but afterward Kili found him on his knees patting along the ground where he thought he saw the arrow stop.

“You realize you look like you’ve finally gone around the bend wandering around like that, right?”

Fili grunted.

“Great impersonation of uncle Thorin, but really, what _are_ you doing?”

“I have a hunch…”

“And?”

“And,” Fili paused to look at his brother. “I sincerely hope I’m wrong.”


	17. Kili's not gonna like this....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about the wait for the update, I got about halfway through the chapter and then got stuck debating an interlude with Thorin for like, a week. I must also apologize for my original summary. The way I had planned this fic there was going to be a lot more Dis-Bilbo interaction but somehow? it just kinda didn't happen?? There will be a lot more brother in-law bonding later, but somehow I got both off prompt and off summary, so sorry about that. I'm not sure at this point of I'm going to fix the summary or the earlier chapters, but eventually they'll match. Also, soon we get into the cool part of the story! Yay!

Fili and Kili had spent until after sunrise tracing and retracing their steps looking for Bilbo on the battleground- for that was all it could have been. They had both decided that arrows _do not_ just disappear on their own and Fili was absolutely certain of what he saw, so they made a pact to keep looking as long as it took to find their (hopefully) soon to be hobbity uncle.

Unfortunately, they weren’t having much luck. Several hours and nothing, they’d resorted to walking around shouting his name when Kili cried out and fell.

“Kili!-“

“No,” he was panting with a grimace on his face, but he waved Fili away as he ran over. “It’s fine, I just should’ve sat down earlier.”

“Are you sure? I can go and get Óin if you need-“

Kili was still grimacing, but this time in distaste and mild horror. “Please no, if I have to suffer one more lecture about ‘straining myself needlessly’ and how I shouldn‘t go outside my brain is going to leak out my ears.”

“Fili you’re my brother,” he said when Fili looked him over doubtfully. “Don’t subject me to any more of those tonics, they make my tongue fuzzy! Besides if I get stuck inside again I’m taking you with me, and then we wouldn’t be able to look for Bilbo.”

When he could see his brother give in Kili nearly crowed in triumph.

“Fine.”

Fili sighed as Kili grinned. Then he had a thought and watched as the grin disappeared when he smiled slyly.

“But…”

“Oh no.”

“I’m-“

“Fili don’t do it.”

“-going to get amad.”

“I thought I told you not to do that.”

“Too bad. You suck at looking after yourself and I can’t do it and search for Uncle Bilbo at the same time, so amad it is.”

“I hate you.”

“No ya don’t.”

“I really do!” Kili yelled after his brother.

“No you don’t!” Fili yelled back without turning around, their mother had to be around somewhere…

“…No, I never could.” Kili whispered to himself.

 

 

Fili found Dis just as she was setting up to give the children she’d been looking after their lunch and didn’t manage to get a word in before a tiny

 

dwarfling and two of the Laketown children launched themselves at her.

“Dis! Lady Dis! We need your help!” the littlest one, the dwarfling cried.

Fili watched his amad kneel down and grasp the child’s shoulders- the little thing was near tears and couldn’t seem to get out any more coherent words.

“Dear what’s wrong?” Dis crooned. “What are your names?”

“I’m Dwila, but it doesn’t matter!” The dwarfling, Dwila, started pointing frantically as the two boys behind her nodded.

“It doesn’t matter cause mister Bilbo is hurt and he’s not waking up!”

Fili gasped in shock while Dis looked to the other two in askance.

“It’s true miss, we went looking for the apple storyteller guy to see if he had any more stories to share- see if he could calm down some of the littler ones after last night, but when we found him he was laying behind some barrels.”

“We tried to wake ‘im, but he just groaned at us. We came to get help…”

“Right.” Dis got up and straightened out her skirt. She and Fili looked to eachother and nodded. Just what they were agreeing on neither could say, but Dis took Dwila’s hand and asked her to lead the way while Fili and the other children followed behind.

Fili had thought that when he got news of Bilbo he’d have a million things to say or do, but his mind seemed to be short circuiting. After hours of looking, Thorin’s frantic search with the guards, listing out possibility after possibility of what happened, all he could think was ‘ _how did he stay with the children and we never noticed?’_

It seemed that Kili would have to wait.

 

 

Despite his fears, what Fili saw when Bilbo came in sight didn’t seem to be anything too terrible. The hobbit was asleep, leaning against some barrels as if to keep himself politely out of the way of anyone walking by, but anyone familiar with injury knew that sleep, especially undisturbed, wasn’t always a good thing.

Indeed, it proved so as they sped closer with Fili and Dwila calling out to him; Bilbo didn’t wake, he didn’t even stir at the noise.

‘ _He’s too still…_ ’ Fili thought. ‘ _And much too pale. He wasn’t always that skinny, right?_ ’ It just got worse the closer they came, Their hobbit was much too thin, much too pale, he had a spotting bandage round his head and blood seeping through the front of his shirt at both the shoulder and abdomen. Fili could tell the moment his amad spotted the blood, as her face set into the scowl she always wore whenever any of her family got hurt.

She knelt down in front of him, paying no attention to Fili or the children crying quietly behind her. “Bilbo?” She reached out. “Master Baggins?”

All he did was groan quietly in response. “Master Not-a-Dwarf, I need you to wake up now, really, please.” She grabbed both his shoulders.

And wake up he did, with a scream that would likely haunt Fili to his dying day. Dis immediately loosed her grip on Bilbo’s shoulders, and that’s when they noticed it. The arrowhead. The one belonging to the arrow Fili and Kili had spent the last few hours looking for.

It was Kili’s.

Fili knew his brother would be drowning in guilt once he found out, but at the moment Fili was having a hard time with his own.

If only he had paid more attention during the battle instead of making smart remarks in his head, if only he’d had the wherewithal to remember Bilbo’s ring and connect the pieces as he was now, if only he had looked sooner, faster, if only, if only.

He felt as young as Dwila in that moment as he helped his mother maneuver Bilbo into her arms- he had seen battle, he had seen death but he’d never known what it was like to lose family. Oh, sure he’d lost his father, way back when, when he was only a dwarfling and couldn’t remember him all that well to begin with, but he’d never lost anyone like this, not really.

Bilbo was family, family of his heart if nothing else and he’d hoped for family by marriage as well. Mahal, if Thorin lost Bilbo- well, it didn’t bear thinking about. The company were going to tear themselves apart even with Bilbo as he was, and if they lost him- again, he’d rather not think on it.

 

Their hastily assembled entourage made its way as quickly as possible toward Erebor, trying to jostle their hobbit as little as possible, the poor thing whimpering and babbling incoherently all the while.

Dis couldn’t make out much, but what she could made her blood boil. Thorin had banished the hobbit, yes, she had known that as a fact, but she’d not really thought about what it meant. She certainly hadn’t thought the hobbit would take it this seriously, however.

What she had initially thought were pleas to alleviate the pain, were actually protests against entering Erebor. Claims that indicated he’d rather find his death than betray the king’s trust again and _‘why, no, please don’t make me do this, Fili I’m sorry, just let me leave, I won’t bother you, promise,_ ’ interspersed between whines and groans, and the whole lot of it just made her heart hurt.

Sure her brother was a dick, but this poor creature seemed convinced that the whole of the Dwarvish race was out for his blood. She and Thorin would be having words later and as soon as he was conscious and fairly healthy again, she’d be having some with the hobbit as well.

This nonsense had to stop, and as it seemed no one else in her family was capable of it, the job fell to Dis.

 

As they crossed the threshold of the front gates, accruing quite the lot of spectators as they did, Dis yelled out for someone to fetch Óin and send him to the royal wing.

Bilbo’s protests had grown more desperate when the stone of the mountain covered their heads, but Dis only shushed him kindly and rushed faster to one of the open healing rooms in the royal wing, making sure to keep him far away from Thorin’s room lest anyone get any ideas or anything unfortunate happen. If her brother upset the hobbit, you could be sure heads would roll.

 

As soon as Bilbo and Óin were alone in the healing room and Ori and Gloin had shown up, Dis was pacing in her anger and worry.

The others were standing about worriedly until Fili jumped up.

“Kili!” He cried. “I left him outside, I need to go get him, Bilbo… he needs to know. I’ll be right back!” And with that he dashed off down the hall.

 

Dis needed space. “Dwila dear, would you mind going with Gloin and fetching the rest of our company?”

“No!”

“No?” She questioned, surprised at the ferocity of the dwarfling’s denial. “Why ever not?”

“I’m not leaving Mister Bilbo! He’s hurt, I wanna help!”

“My dear, Bilbo needs his friends right now, and unless you’ve secretly gotten your mastery in healing while still under age, that’s the best help you can give him.”

Dwila pouted and Dis was warmly reminded of her own two children. That was why she offered to take care of them, she loved children as much as any dwarf or dam, but having had her own and having had to watch them grow beyond her protection, that was a hurt that couldn’t be helped. But getting to remind herself of the joys and tribulations of childhood with the other young ones was nearly as good.

“Fine.” Dwila set her expression and nodded once before marching off on her mission, leaving Gloin to follow bemusedly.

“She has no idea where she’s going does she?”

“Nope.”

And the two boys quickly trailed after.

With only Ori left standing awkwardly in the hall, Dis handed out her last edict.

“Get Thorin here, would you please?”

“But, my lady, isn’t he not supposed to—“

 

The princess looked him in the eye and said slowly in that deadly quiet of hers, “I don’t care if he’s broken every bone in his body, get my fucking brother over here. Now.”


	18. Plot Progression!!?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I just wanted to say a few things. One, I recently started a new job that has been absolute chaos and has, admittedly, played a part in the lateness of this update. Second, I wanted to say thank you to all of you who comment on my writing. I have a nasty little habit of never responding to comments unless I'm asked a question unlike some authors who respond to all of them. I wish there was a like button for comments just so I could let you all know that I read Every Single One and they make me go through my day smiling. I know it seems overstated that 'fanfic authors love comments' but we really do, and just because I don't respond to them often doesn't mean that they mean any less to me. I look through them when I get stuck and they bolster me to keep writing- more often than not I go look at the works/profiles of those of you who comment (stalker-ish that may be, though hopefully not) and I love getting to see your contribution to this site as well. It's nice to have that confirmation that Actual People are reading my work- and enjoying it! So this it a Great Big thank you to all of you and is something I should have said a long time ago.

The concept of collective guilt was new to Thorin. New, and absolutely no better than singular guilt, with which he was very familiar.

When Ori had tumbled into his room in that adorably nervous way of his and explained that Bilbo had been found and that Dis was waiting for him, Thorin’s hope had soared and he’d nearly pulled several stiches trying to get up before Ori could reach him. It had taken him getting all the way out of bed and a few steps toward the door to notice the hitch in Ori’s behavior and the look on his face that usually meant there was something uncomfortable he wasn’t sure he should bring up.

Luckily- or not depending on how one looked at it- Ori didn’t seem to feel that Thorin needed to be kept away from anything Bilbo related anymore and spilled after shuffling through a few pained expressions. Thorin almost would have preferred he’d stayed mad and left him in the dark with his hope.

He’d hoped that interacting with the lad more and the quest as a whole would have helped curb his habit of _always_ using Thorin’s title even when asked not to and maybe give him more of a backbone- the first was… a work in progress but the second had worked surprisingly well. Thorin had not realized that it also meant Ori had no reservations about viciously reminding him of what he’d done to Bilbo through every passive-aggressive means necessary.

On second thought, this could just have been another of those instances.

Bilbo had been found, but he was injured and delirious and Óin wasn’t letting anyone in or saying anything other than _“Get out! I can’t help the lad with all your fussin’!”_ when they’d asked.

At least everyone else seemed just as put out as he was at the lack of information with Fili and Dis being the exceptions- their concern and overall twitchiness did nothing to ease the minds of the company however.

From the little Thorin had been told it was his sister and nephew who had found their hobbit, with help from a little dwarfling apparently named Dwila who was currently seated firmly on Dwalin’s lap (entirely without his permission thank you) and doing a very good impression of the warrior himself, staunchly refusing to be moved until the door opened.

 _“He’s MY mister Bilbo and I’m gonna help no matter what!”_ she had cried when Dori had tried to send her off. And really, who could say no to that? Not Dori certainly.

Irritatingly, not even the child would tell them what had happened or how Bilbo was, the only thing happening in that regard was Fili and Kili whispering furiously to eachother and Kili growing more and more distraught with each word. Neither of them were saying anything either.

The only thing Thorin had gotten at this point was a very grave threat from Dis that came in the words: ‘ _You need to fix this. And none if that half-assed ‘I fixed it by avoiding it and telling half-truths’ that you usually do, or I’ll be pulling the necessary apologies and solutions from your arse myself.’_

Again, at least the guilt he was experiencing wasn’t entirely his own this time- it was emanating from everyone gathered in that little hallway and made it seem as if they were already attending Bilbo’s funeral rather than waiting for him to be okay.

 

Óin eventually reappeared, dabbing sweat off his forehead with a reddened cloth. The collective company quieted and held their breaths as if waiting for a trial verdict.

Bofur broke the silence with a tentative “Bilbo?”

“He’s alive.” Óin replied, and the tension drained from them all like a rush of water. “He’s alive, but not out of the woods. Laddie’s in bad shape all things considered.” Some of it came back.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve cleaned out his wounds- I expect he was getting help from that Lakeman you said he’s been loitering around as they weren’t as rotten as I’d have thought- but they were still bad. He’s badly concussed and I’ve found several fractures in his skull that may give him headaches for years if not the rest of his life.”

The implication that it would only be pertinent if he lived remained unstated.

“And…” Kili wilted when they all turned to look at him. “The… the arrow?”

Óin handed what remained of the shaft and arrowhead over without a word.

Thorin’s youngest nephew let out a stifled cry as he took it and he seemed to collapse in on himself, confusing Thorin until he looked closer at the broken piece Kili was clutching and recognized the metal work. Fili just wrapped his arms around his brother as he sobbed.

“It was an accident. Bilbo was wearing his ring when the orcs attacked and Kili was aiming for an orc behind him. I… I saw the arrow disappear but didn’t manage to put the pieces together until later. It’s not his fault.”

“No one blames you laddie,” Balin comforted. “Neither of you. It wasn’t your fault Bilbo was in the fight, and it wasn’t your fault he was hurt. Thanks to you we finally found him, injured though he may be.”

At long last Thorin spoke up. “None of you are to blame, least of all the two of you. I would, however enquire more of our hobbit?” He looked to Óin in question and tried to ignore the fact that his nephew seemed to fault himself for Thorin’s failure to protect Bilbo adequately.

“Like I said, He’s in a bad way. I’ve cut out the rot and stitched him up as best I can, dosed him with poppy too, just to be safe. I’ll have some of the elven healers still around check up on him and do what they can- but Thorin, if the rot comes back there’s nothing I can do. Should that happen- well. I don’t think our burglar will be waking up again if that’s the case.”

The words weighed down the air and Thorin felt suddenly that there was too little air in the lofty hallway. He barely heard Óin stating that Bilbo could have visitors but only a few at a time so as not to overwhelm him as he struggled to breathe and clear his head.

Thorin missed the concerned gazes of his sister and Balin as he staggered to his feet and shuffled unevenly toward his own rooms.

Having reached the safety of his bed and climbed shakily under the blankets like a dwarfling Thorin wondered not for the first time where it had all gone so terribly wrong. He could not fathom if it would have been better to never know the fate of Bilbo Baggins or to have the reality he was faced with, or even- Mahal forbid- if Bilbo had simply died peacefully and without the suffering he must have had to endure to this point.

So many perils and toils and woes he had brought upon his hobbit and there was naught he could do but wait. Thorin wished, oh how he wished that there was an enemy, something, anything he could fight or slay or vanquish to solve all this but time was a foe greater than all.

Hidden safely under soft furs away from the eyes of his people and kin Thorin wept. He wept so bitterly for Bilbo, for his sister-sons and for his kin and people as well. He shed tear after tear he had long denied after Erebor fell, after his grandfather and father and brother came to their bloody ends, when his people wandered homeless and starving. Thorin had greivings innumerable and he wept for each of them as he hadn’t before. So many things he would do again and fix if only he could, so many wrongs that had been done to him and that he had done. Bilbo was only the crowning jewel of his misery it seemed, for all that he was his heart as well.

 

Under the heavy, watchful stone of the Lonely Mountain, her king grieved and wept for that which he had lost and so callously thrown away, and a hobbit who as of yet still ruled the fate of many, dreamt.


	19. The real plot twist begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how long I've been waiting to write this part of the story. I've been waiting since like, chapter 4. This chapter = SYMBOLISM! You also just might hate me fore this, but just wait, it gets worse.

Bilbo awoke to the color grey. It was alarmingly similar to his awakening on Ravenhill and he froze for a moment in panic, fearing that all the time he had spent watching and assuring himself of the company’s safety had been nothing but a lie. His fear slowly abated however, as he began to notice the differences- the ground here was not cold, he was not in pain nor was he covered in blood and grime. His memory of Ravenhill, foggy though it was, did not consist of the literal clouds he seemed to be ensconced in and he did not remember sitting up to find a wholly encompassing silence adding to the unnerving and anticipatory feeling of seeing nothing but grey fog.

It truly was nothing but fog; the ground was obscured completely- oddly so- as Bilbo could still see his feet and limbs clearly, but what they rested on seemed only to be more fog no matter how closely he looked.

Unsure of what this meant, or where he even was, Bilbo was loathe to break the silence by calling out lest he not be as alone as he might have thought- and with potentially unsavory characters loitering about. The silence however, unbroken as it was, seemed to urge him to do something, so he stood and took one hesitant and surprisingly loud step forward.

Bilbo let some of the tension in his shoulders drain and he sighed gently when the ground- fog? fog-ground?- failed to give any indication that it was any less solid than its stone counterparts Bilbo was more familiar with. It continued to remain solid, if disconcertingly cloud-like in appearance, as he walked; meandering slowly deeper into the nothingness and finding only more nothingness to account for.

It was eerily void-like, no landmarks of any kind to indicate his passage and Bilbo had little idea if he was going anywhere at all- never mind deeper into or out of… whatever this was. He had no idea how he got here- strangely enough, when he tried to recall the last thing he remembered he could only find a vague sense of his time after the battle. He remembered waking on Ravenhill, he remembered meeting Feanor and Dis and the children and taking an arrow to the shoulder during the orc raid, but it was as if he had seen it through another’s eyes- heard it as a story once, not quite remembering how it ended, only that it did.

Bilbo found himself walking as he pondered this, for how long he couldn’t tell, it seemed to take both minutes and ages. He likely would have gone on like that much longer had he not stumbled across both a landmark and a proper memory.

The Oak tree had appeared in the fog out of nowhere, rising suddenly out of the mists as a somber spectre of some warrior of old might, Bilbo nearly ramming his nose into it before he managed to stop.

It was strange and dark, caught somewhere in flux between the seasons appearing neither with leaves nor without them, not one color or any, simply existing without image or purpose as a blank canvas might. To the hobbit it seemed fully grown, or perhaps not- he couldn’t tell. It seemed only as if too little time had passed since he’d planted it in Dale for it to be as it was, or perhaps too much.

Strange for such a tree to be here, in this void-land, he thought, not when he was certain the acorn it came from still lay in the permafrost of Dale’s town center. But was here not Dale? Bilbo couldn’t remember. He couldn’t see, couldn’t remember, it was all gone there was nothing only fog and the silence and---

The Oak and the phantom feeling of the acorn in his hand grounded him when the mist would not- Bilbo screwed his eyes shut and calmed his breathing (when had it sped up?) with the memory of that acorn, warm from his pocket, and the hope he’d symbolically placed in it. He’d told Bard as he’d broken his nails and froze his hands digging into the dirt that it wasn’t just an acorn, that it was new life in the face of desolation, a reason to hope when all hope was lost.

The tree still stood in front of him when he opened his eyes, welcoming Bilbo as the only solid thing there with him. He reached out in a rush, desperate to confirm that it _was_ there and that his eyes weren’t deceiving him and the fond rush of hope and comfort that he felt standing next to it wasn’t an illusion played by his poor, hopefully not addled mind.

Indeed, it was just as solid as it had appeared and a rush of relief filled him.

Having nothing better to do, though he was neither tired nor weary, Bilbo sat himself down at the base of the tree making sure to keep part of it in his periphery… just in case.

He found he was wearing clothes he mostly remembered leaving at Bag End, his Highday best if he recalled correctly. The wine overcoat he had unintentionally brought to it’s troll-bogeyed doom was clean and without any of the wear it had acquired on the quest, fitting neatly on his shoulders over a dandelion waistcoat and his father’s best cravat. Why these were the clothes Bilbo appeared in was beyond him, but at least he would look his best should he have company.

Any company.

Some.

Even just… one… other person.

But why would there be anyone else there? If they were anything like him, had they known how to escape this fogged wasteland they would have done so at the earliest opportunity, leaving poor Bilbo all alone here and if they didn’t know- well they wouldn’t be all that useful. Thus it seemed to Bilbo that he had found himself his own personal void, and it was unlikely anyone would be along to rescue him from it anytime soon.

Pity, he would much have liked for one of his dwarrow to come strolling through and lead him out, not without a few words of well-intentioned friendly mockery for acquiring Thorin’s sense of direction of course.

Not long after Bilbo had assured himself that it was silly to think there might be anyone else there and had taken to leaning against the tree, he started talking to it. Well, he started talking out loud, but as one sided conversations tended to- the ‘you’ he made reference to, or perhaps the ‘one’ as one might- it became rather directed at the only other physical object there, as such, Bilbo began his dialogue with an Oak tree.

“This really is quite the pickle.” He stated. The tree didn’t respond.

“For the both of us I suppose, this clearly isn’t Dale… at least I don’t think it is. Of course if here isn’t Dale, then it has to be somewhere.”

‘Somewhere’ remained as silent as the grave and as foggy as ever in response to Bilbo’s comment- he had ~~expected~~ hoped that acknowledging its existence might lead it to do something, preferably something to give the impression that there was in fact a ‘here’ to be at, instead of a ‘nowhere’.

“Fine, ‘nowhere’ it is then. If that’s how it’s going to be then does that mean that this whole reality is a lie?”

Again, no answer.

“If there is nothing here, and this is nowhere, that would mean I’m not here, but I am here, which would mean that this has to be somewhere!” Bilbo huffed in annoyance. Arguments were difficult to have when there was no other party. Perhaps he had achieved the ultimate version of arguing with oneself with no one to see you make yourself look the fool as his father had said.

“Maybe I’m not here. Maybe nothing is ever anywhere and I don’t exist! Maybe nobody ever existed, maybe this tree doesn’t even exist!” He flailed his arms at it with his vituperation and turned to glare at it, as glaring at fog that did not seem to have a physical place in front of him was wholly unsatisfying.

Despite having neither eyes nor face, the tree stared back at him accusingly.

Bilbo sighed and let his head thunk against the tree. He found he didn’t have the energy to be argumentative, indeed he hardly had the energy to do much at all if it involved emotion. It was as if his feelings were someone else’s and he was experiencing them as one might secondhand embarrassment, but with a lot more exhaustion.

 

More time passed in the warped and undefined way it did in Bilbo’s fog-land and all he had to show for it was more silence, a view of the Oak blurred by his hair and proximity, and a pair of strangely shadowed feet in his periphery.

Wait.

Those weren’t his feet.

The figure didn’t react save a tilting of its head(?) as Bilbo went flailing away in surprise, breathing heavily after suppressing a rather ungainly screech.

He stared at it for a good while, not moving- simply waiting for it to do… something.

The… whatever it was seemed to be about his height and surprisingly hobbit-shaped, though it had no features to speak of. Not an eye, not a hair, not even defined limbs aside from when their shapes cleared the torso were visible- it seemed simply to be a three dimensional, solid shadow.

It was worrisome.

It became even more so when a split seemed to come over it’s face, not a mouth per say, the opening too large and lacking definition other than a gold-ish color, but it appeared to be a grotesque imitation of a smile anyhow.

The hairs on the back of Bilbo’s neck began to stand on end, telling him to be wary. It took a great amount of courage for him to put out a ‘who are you?’ without his voice failing or cracking.

At the creature’s words, spoken by a mouth that never moved as a dark cacophony of voices seeming to come from all around- quite eluding proper description- Bilbo tensed.

 

**“Don’t you remember me? You almost called me precious once.”**

The smile grew impossibly wider.


	20. The Ring is a dick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and welcome to who's fic is it anyway where the update schedule's made up and the word count doesn't matter!
> 
> I'm back! First quarter gave me writer's block- anything I did write was for a sci-fi fantasy course I'm taking and while fun, it's exhausting. On the bright side, one of our required readings was Fellowship of the Ring!  
> I know you're probably thinking, 'after all this time and not even two-thousand words? What's he thinking?' so fear not, I have more written than this but I didn't have a good stopping point yet but I still wanted to give you something at least.

Without really knowing how or why, Bilbo found himself following the strange figure away from his tree. As it disappeared back into the mist his subconscious was screaming at him _, ‘No! You fool! Turn back, turn back!! Don’t lose it!’_ but alas he kept walking, the shadow seeming to have some sort of hold on him that he couldn’t help but follow.

It didn’t speak and neither did he, though out of fear on his part or lack of conversable topics he knew not.

He had nearly worked up both the irritation and gumption to demand where in this grey void they were going when things started to appear out of the mist.

At first he couldn’t tell just what these things were, but the strange blurred and blob-like shapes slowly resolved into trees. Not _his_ tree, no- these were ominous and ethereal, reminding him of their trip through Mirkwood- only with fewer spiders.

Initially the trees were spindly and angled like wire bent out of shape and left to rust, but as the fog dissipated- though it never faded entirely- they became more numerous, slowly coming to resemble the dense copse he remembered. It wasn’t quite the same; the underbrush was much thicker and the wavering sense of reality the spells had caused the first time around now extended to the trees themselves- but it was eerie and concerning enough to make him wonder if this wasn’t some alternate version of that accursed forest.

 

Bilbo took note of how the Shadow ahead of him didn’t seem hindered or unsettled by the thick shrubbery or the looming trees- in fact it seemed right at home, flowing through the maze like water over stone. It never stopped to wait for him when he got caught up detangling himself from the foliage time and again, but somehow it never got too far ahead.

 _‘If I’d known I’d be traipsing through Mirkwood part two, I’d never have followed_!’ Bilbo griped to himself while fighting a particularly ambitious bramble. He ignored the fact that the shadow hadn’t actually asked him to follow it at all.

_‘I had my nice little… ish oak tree, and a very nice spot on the ground thank you very much, and I most certainly didn’t need strange shadow people leading me Eru knows where for Eru knows what.’_

He was just about to let the Shadow person know this, but when he looked up he found that he rather forgot what he had meant to say.

Rising high into the canopy just like he recalled was the main gate to Thranduil’s kingdom. Even having seen it before didn’t diminish its grandeur and being just a small thing as a hobbit must have made it seem even larger.

The gates were closed- unsurprising- but they seemed… sharper than he recalled, more dangerous.

Perhaps his memory was a bit skewed; after having risked life, limb and mental stability for weeks on end in the forest, the Elven king’s realm had seemed a respite, even if an unknowing one. Even if he had been forced to wear his ring near constantly and didn’t have a consistent source of food or place to sleep he’d still felt better for being out the forest the first time he was there.

Now it was just foreboding, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. His shadowy friend seemed entirely unbothered, so Bilbo did his best to appear unaffected- though he wasn’t sure how successful he was when it almost seemed as if the Shadow was laughing at him.

“Why,” Bilbo caught his breath and swallowed. “Why are we here? More importantly- where _is_ here?”

 **“You’ve seen this place before have you not?”** The Shadow deflected.

Worse than Gandalf, this one was. “Yes, but there’s no way we can actually be here, for one thing we didn’t spend weeks getting lost in a spider infested forest… right?”

The Shadow paused and hummed in contemplation.

**“Would you prefer there be spiders?”**

“No!”

Now Bilbo definitely had the nagging feeling that the Shadow was laughing at him.

 

No sound came from the figure, but the smile remained- it was just as unnerving as it was when he first saw it, but having never seen it diminish Bilbo decided it was a permanent feature and that he shouldn’t think too hard on it.

“Spiders or no, that doesn’t tell me why we’re here.”

The Shadow chose not to respond, instead placing a hand- or what would have been a hand on a normal person- on one of the great doors.

What happened next Bilbo could never really describe entirely- it was almost as if the door ceased to be for a radius around the Shadow, but with no actual edge of where the door was verses where it wasn’t, the view he had into the kingdom seemed to be a mix of actually seeing it and looking at a painting.

He stood transfixed for what must have been too long because the Shadow huffed- Bilbo would have found it amusing had The Smile not taken on a dangerously impatient edge- and gestured that he should walk through the door. The closed door.

“Ahh, erm.” Bilbo wavered, though he did take a step forward. He tentatively placed his hand where the door wasn’t and was halfway surprised that he passed right through it.

The Shadow had apparently had enough of his lollygagging as it used it’s free hand to push Bilbo all the way through. The experience of going through a door that should be but wasn’t was oddly anticlimactic aside from nearly falling on his face.

Bilbo turned to glare at the Shadow.

“That was incredibly rude you know.”

The Shadow shrugged unapologetically _._

 

 _‘Even my dwarrow have better manners than you,’_ Bilbo thought. ‘ _And isn’t that saying something_.’

Bilbo almost wondered if he’d said that out loud when the Shadow paused and tilted its head, but dismissed it when it said nothing and kept walking.

The inside of the kingdom was just as he remembered, only with color this time. He had never had the opportunity to see the effect the golden lamps littered about had on the soaring trees, nor the pretty mosaics on the walls and floors. It was very enchanting, but still with that dangerous edge that had so far surrounded everything in this Mirkwood replica.

The fog was still there, a lingering presence if you looked too long at one spot and Bilbo avoided doing so simply to escape the reminder of the desolate nothingness he had been stuck in not too long ago.

The Shadow wandered deeper into the kingdom, and Bilbo realized that he was being led toward the throne room. He nearly had a heart attack when an elf passed right by them after exiting a side door.

The Shadow did nothing and so Bilbo held his breath hoping against hope that the elf wouldn’t notice them standing out like sore thumbs in the middle of the hall.

By some magic, that’s exactly what happened. It took him a moment to pinpoint it, but when he noticed the strange blurring that happened when he viewed a moving thing while wearing the ring, Bilbo came to the conclusion that he must be invisible.

He checked both his fingers and his pocket just to be sure, but no, he wasn’t wearing the ring. In fact, it seemed to have disappeared entirely.

Bilbo had dismissed the Shadow’s first words to him as some flight of fancy or a riddle like wizards (and strange cave-dwelling cannibalistic creatures) were so fond of, not stopping to remember that Mirkwood was in fact the only place that he had ‘almost called _anything_ precious once.’

Busy trying to find his ring, Bilbo didn’t realize in the moment when the elf had passed him by and he had frozen, he had already begun to accept that wherever they were was real, Mirkwood or no.

 

 **“Come.”** The Shadow demanded, turning back to their path without checking to see if Bilbo was following. Self-assured bastard.

Despite his irritation and already frazzled nerves, Bilbo dutifully followed the only known variable in his life at that point.

 _‘How ridiculous is that?!’_ He mused a bit hysterically. _‘The thing I’m most sure of out of everything is a debatably real, three-dimensional, magic shadow!’_

His feet made absolutely no sound on the stone floor as they walked - exceptional even for a hobbit- and they made it to the throne room without any more heart-stopping encounters. Unfortunately such instances picked up again as soon as they came within sight of Thranduil’s throne, because what Bilbo saw made his muscles freeze and his heart jump to his throat. Thranduil was there of course, as well as a few guards, but in the middle of the dais stood none other than Thorin Oakenshield.


	21. Thranduil is an asshole, but there's a reason I promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, if you think it's symbolism it probably is and if you don't think it's symbolism... it still probably is. Disclaimer; Thranduil isn't this mean, he's actually a pretty nice guy. Don't take any characterizations presented right now to heart.

At first Bilbo was just confused. Thorin Oakenshield and Mirkwood weren’t two things one automatically put together, so any notions of this all being in his head went out the window.

Why was Thorin standing in front of Thranduil’s throne? They’d already been through this, they had been working on an alliance after the battle last he had heard- did something go wrong?

Bilbo figured that something must have because Thorin didn’t seem to be there of his own free will if the guards blocking his exit were anything to go by. Did this happen the first time around? He hadn’t found Thorin in the dungeons until several days after he had found the others- nearly two weeks after they’d all been captured and probably a few more days on top of that assuming the elves had caught Thorin before everyone else. There was a whisper in is mind that was telling him that this situation was much more dangerous than he thought.

Looking closer Bilbo got the impression that this _was_ the first time around. Or something similar. Thorin was coated liberally in cobwebs, his coat torn and ragged from overuse with little care. His face seemed drawn and haggard, as if he was repeating a conversation he’d already had several times before.

Perhaps that was the case; even Thranduil seemed to be dully going through the motions.

Bilbo was broken from his observations when Thorin began yelling in Khuzdul- Thranduil had clearly said something to anger him enough to eliminate what little diplomacy there had been.

Was this what he had missed skulking around in the dungeons all that time? Was he being forced to relive parts of the Quest for some reason? Bilbo looked to the Shadow for answers only to find it gone.

His anxiety peaked, confusion that had already been running rampant now mingled with fear- just because one elf hadn’t been able to see him didn’t mean all of them couldn’t, and if he still had to play his role of jail-breaker, being caught without his ring could only spell disaster. And what if he was permanently invisible? If this was real, would he be stuck in Thranduil’s kingdom with a Thorin who couldn’t even see him for the rest of his life?

It seemed that only the Shadow could tell him, though it had evaded his questions earlier, and now even it had disappeared into the mist!

Frozen with indecision Bilbo had to quickly stumble out of the way when Thorin was herded past him and out the door by the guards.

They had overlooked him completely.

With a sinking feeling in his gut, Bilbo followed them down, watching as Thorin was pushed into the same cell as last time. The guard locked his cell, but in an uncharacteristic moment of elvish clumsiness, dropped the keys.

Bilbo impulsively took the opportunity to snatch them up, only to find that to his horror, his hand passed straight through the keys as if they weren’t even there.

What was happening? He’d only ever been invisible, not intangible- nonexistence was not part of the deal here! He had no ring, he had no plan, he wasn’t even sure if any of this was even real for Valar’s sake! Clearly this had to be the Shadow’s fault, it seemed to be the crux of this entire adventure away from his Oak tree and it must have known what it was doing.

If only Bilbo had any idea where it went.

He let out a quiet screech when he turned around only to find it lurking in the corridor behind him as if waiting patiently for him to pay attention.

“Why-” He gasped. “Why must you sneak about like that, you’re going to give me a heart attack!”

The shadow just looked at him doubtfully. How it did so without eyes was a bit of a mystery, but Bilbo ignored it.

He deflated as his anger faded as quickly as it had come- emotions were hard here, but anger seemed to come more easily than most. “Why are we here?” He whispered miserably.

**“Because you must choose.”**

“Choose what!?”

Predictably he got no answer, but he couldn’t muster the energy to be mad. Bilbo didn’t want to choose. He’d been making choices since he opened the door to smial to reveal the first dwarf he’d ever seen in his life- and he was fairly certain that at least half of them had been very bad decisions.

He didn’t regret coming on the quest- he knew he’d never regret that- but his own inexperience and stubbornness had caused them all more than his fair share of trouble.

There was that time he had gotten cocky about learning to ride a horse and fell off his pony into a stream- losing some of their food in the process, the whole situation with the trolls, nearly getting eaten by wargs right after that because he was foolish enough to look behind him necessitating Thorin having to come haul him along by the back of his jacket.

Then there was him getting lost in the goblin tunnels and holding everyone up when they argued about whether to look for him, wasting time in Mirkwood and failing to find a better way out as his dwarves had made sure to complain about vigorously when they finally washed ashore, holding them up again in Laketown when he got sick- not strictly his fault, but he had made the mistake of taking a plunge into the river instead of getting himself a barrel.

He didn’t even want to start on what happened in the mountain, telling Smaug not to hurt the lake-men surely was what sealed their doom, and his slapdash attempt to stop a war failed anyway, as well as estranging all his friends.

How could he be asked to make a reliable decision now, when it seemed the lives of his friends once again hung in the balance? His bids toward peace had been temporarily placating at best, what was the guarantee it would be as successful this time and not come to violence instead?

 _Maybe violence would be better. If he didn’t start it then someone else would; why not take the advantage while he could?_ No. He was a hobbit no matter how unrespectable he now was- hobbits weren’t violent, they didn’t like war and he most certainly didn’t either.

 

 

The shadow seemed patient as Bilbo did his best to compose himself and shake off the disconcerting thoughts, it removed the handkerchief hanging forgotten from his pocket and handed it to him as one would when consoling a crying relative who you didn’t much like but needed to be on good terms with anyway.

It was more difficult than he though to put himself together when he kept glancing over and seeing Thorin looking so sad and defeated in his cell.

It was a sight Bilbo had become distressingly familiar with during their first time in Mirkwood- it got better after he had revealed himself and assured Thorin of the safety of the rest of the company, but anytime Bilbo had happened to pass by while he was wearing the ring he would see Thorin slouched there with his defenses down and the struggle of their journey truly showing on his face.

It was the first time Bilbo had seen him when he wasn’t doing his best to pretend; to pretend that he had complete confidence in their success, that he wasn’t worried sick about his nephews or that he didn’t actually feel the weight of a lost kingdom on his shoulders every minute of the day.

Thorin was many things but a good actor was not one of them once you got to know him.

Once they were walking again Bilbo found that he was once again following the Shadow, this time past the throne room and into some mix between a conference room and a library. There were quite a few elves milling about, including Thranduil and his son- the king holding a glass of Dorwinion wine and Legolas whispering that ‘wasn’t it too early for that much?’

Ignoring his son’s concerns, Thranduil downed the wine and swept to the front of the table- apparently the cue for whatever meeting they were having to start.

Bilbo and the Shadow lingered by the door- the Shadow didn’t seem to care so long as they were in the room and Bilbo was still wary of being caught out despite his newfound intangibility.

There was a strange tension in the air, one that had the potential to become either dangerous or distressing and Bilbo wasn’t sure if it was just him or the overall atmosphere of the room. He was on edge and half convinced he was hallucinating vividly, but that didn’t mean that he was about to not pay attention- as such, as the elves all settled in to whatever meeting they were supposed to be having he came to stand and watch intently from behind Thranduil’s chair.

The king’s commanding voice filled and silenced the room. “As you all well know, we have twelve dwarrow in our dungeons, twelve dwarrow from Erebor- kin of Thorin Oakenshield.”

Several of the older (maybe, the whole ‘immortality’ thing made it hard to tell) elves sneered at the mention of Thorin.

“We even have Oakenshield himself in our grasp and at your suggestion, we have convened to discuss the merits of… permanently eliminating him.”

Bilbo gaped and the Shadow smiled as Thranduil’s court began to discuss murdering the King under the Mountain.


End file.
